


Promises To Keep

by Buckeye01



Series: Double Trouble [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Medic Aramis, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 103,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos and d'Artagnan are sent on a mission to deliver a secret letter from the king. The mission uncovers a plot that will change the course of history for France and its King--with the Musketeers as unwilling players. The boys become entangled in a conspiracy of monumental proportions with spies of untold courage and bravery; and one who will stop at nothing, even torturing and killing, to get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lion's Den

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new story-part 3 of 4 in the Double Trouble series. I hope you enjoy this mix of h/c, angst, conspiracy with spies & mystery, and a whole lot of history! Enjoy! This story is dedicated to my good friend, Mountain Cat, who inspired me with the poem and the title of this story! Thank You, Mon Ami!

THE LION’S DEN

Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village, though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake  
To ask if there is some mistake.  
The only other sound's the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

*****

Aramis was lulled to sleep by the gentle swaying of the carriage taking him south to Orléans; no sooner had he nodded off when the carriage hit a bump in the road and jarred him awake.

He heard the soft giggles from Cécile sitting next to him and smiled as he squeezed her hand gently. He looked at her watching him and his smile grew wider. "How did I ever get to be so lucky?”

“Why, Monsieur Aramis?” Cécile feigned innocence, fanning herself furiously. “Whatever do you mean?”

“How did I get to be so lucky—or so blessed—to have met someone as beautiful as you? Here I am, sitting next to a beautiful lady while holding her lovely hand,” he paused to kiss her lips, “and kissing her sweet lips.”

“My handsome and charming Aramis.” Cécile cupped his cheek with her hand. “I am the one who is lucky.”

Aramis leaned forward to meet her lips in a soft kiss; he pulled her closely to him in a tight embrace as they kissed passionately. A deep hole in the road caused the carriage to jolt with a tooth-jarring bounce, knocking the couple’s foreheads together with a smack.

Cécile cried out with surprise then began to giggle as she watched Aramis rubbing tenderly at the growing red bump in the middle of his forehead. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” she snickered. “I know, it’s not funny,” she continued to giggle. The nurse fanned herself even more furiously while trying hard not to burst into a fit of laughter.

“No apologies necessary,” Aramis smiled. “I think injuries sustained while kissing you are more than acceptable.” 

Cécile nestled her head on Aramis’ shoulder and closed her eyes, allowing the swaying of the carriage to lull her to sleep.

Aramis smiled at the lovely lady sleeping beside him and softly kissed the top of her head. His smile soon faded as he stared out the carriage window, his thoughts turning to the friends he left behind at the garrison. He wished that he would have had more time to oversee Athos’ recovery; especially after allowing the lieutenant to exert himself to the point of exhaustion on their foolhardy walk to the tavern. _As a medic, I should have known better,”_ he quietly berated himself.

 _I hope you rest well, Athos, so you can finish healing. Maybe Porthos and d’Artagnan will take better care of you than I did. Porthos is strong; he won’t so easily give in to your ill-timed desire for adventure and cravings to drink._ Aramis shook his head and frowned.

 _I pray duty remains light at the garrison so they can keep an eye on Athos. I almost feel sympathy for Porthos and d’Artagnan having the responsibility of watching over a restless and very grouchy Athos._ Aramis couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of his friends dealing with a grumpy Athos without him around to help. 

Growing worry tormented the back of Aramis’ mind; he couldn’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t have gone away on this journey. _I’m sorry, Athos, but I lied to you. I promised that I wouldn’t worry about you while I was gone—that I’d have a good time—but it’s not true. I won’t stop worrying about you until I am back at home with my brothers where I belong._

*****

Athos blinked back the sunlight accosting his tired eyes as he was awakened by a hacking cough. The Musketeer partially curled into himself, turning his face into the pillow until he could catch his breath; it was an action that didn’t make any sense, but it seemed to work. Breathing in and out slowly, the cough finally abated its assault on his weary body enough for him to rasp out a request for water.

Porthos handed the sick man a cup of water, watching with concern as Athos greedily gulped it down in one sip. “You alright, eh?” he paused. “That is quite a cough you ‘ave.” Compassion radiated from the large Musketeer’s eyes and stopped Athos’ protests before they could even slip off his tongue.

“I’m fine,” he smiled fondly at his friend. The warm look on Porthos’ face instantly melted away Athos’ annoyance and objection at being fussed over for a mere cough. “I’ll be fighting this cough for a while it seems,” he sighed softly. “No need to worry, it’ll clear up soon enough.”

A loud snore rattled from the sleeping d’Artagnan who was folded awkwardly in a chair beside the bed. The two men turned to watch their youngest brother sleeping with amazement. Porthos and Athos exchanged glances and smiled, each wondered how the Gascon’s snoring wasn’t waking him from his slumber. In addition, the Musketeers marveled at how the lanky man could sleep twisted in that small chair.

A soft knock on the door, followed by Captain Tréville stepping into the room, was enough to rouse the young Gascon from his sleep. “What’s going on? Oh, I guess I fell asleep.” D’Artagnan winced as he sat upright in the chair, his hands reached to massage the pain in his stiff back and neck.

“Good morning gentlemen,” the captain greeted formally. “Porthos and d’Artagnan, I need to see you both in my office immediately.” Tréville turned on his heel and left the room with the door open, fully expecting the two Musketeers to follow behind him.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged apprehensive glances before looking at Athos, who was staring at the open door where the captain departed just seconds before. “That didn’t sound good,” Athos frowned. “Perhaps the captain has a mission for you,” he surmised. “You boys better go and not keep the captain waiting.”

“I’ll be right back.” Porthos clapped Athos on the shoulder, then he and d’Artagnan stepped out toward the captain’s office. “Let’s go see wha’ the captain wants, eh.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan walked through the open door of the office to find Captain Tréville leaning against his desk, waiting expectantly for their arrival. “Shut the door,” the captain ordered.

D’Artagnan shut the door then joined Porthos standing in front of the captain. “What is it, Captain?”

“I have a mission for the two of you,” the captain began, his tone and features serious. “This mission is of the utmost importance. It is highly classified and could cause dire consequences if this,” Tréville held up a sealed letter, “gets into the wrong hands. There is no one that I trust more for this mission than you; considering we are still short of men due to the recent illness—with Aramis on leave and Athos still sick—it is up to you two to effectively and safely deliver this letter to the recipient.”

“Captain, if we are to put our lives on the line for that piece of paper, might we at least be told of what the letter involves?” D’Artagnan inquired, though he put little hope in learning the subject of the secret correspondence.

“I myself do not know the nature of this letter, d’Artagnan,” the captain shook his head. “It is not my place to question the king, nor the subject of his private correspondence, I simply obey his orders. As King’s Musketeers, it is our duty to follow the king’s commands without question. We do not question the king; we follow his orders.”

“Yes sir, we understand that but. . .” D’Artagnan was interrupted by the captain.

“This sealed letter is private and is to be delivered _directly_ into the hands of Marie d’Hautefort at the Château Royal de Blois, where she is currently a guest of Duc d’Orléans.” Captain Tréville ignored the questioning looks from his Musketeers and continued on. “The king believes this letter is worth risking the lives of his Musketeers in order to have it safely delivered. This confidential correspondence is restricted _only_ to the writer and the recipient; the subject matter of which is none of our business. Am I clear?” 

“Yes sir,” the two unhappy Musketeers answered in unison.

“I understand that you are not happy with the secretive nature of this mission.” The captain softened his tone, allowing his demeanor to relax as he sat on the edge of his desk. “However, the king is depending on us to deliver this letter and I do not wish to let His Majesty down. Let’s get this mission done and get you back home safely, agreed?”

“Agreed, Captain.” Porthos nodded as he inhaled, glancing anxiously at d’Artagnan.

“When do we leave, sir?” d’Artagnan asked.

“You will leave immediately,” Captain Tréville answered, watching his Musketeers closely. “Serge has prepared some food for the road and your horses are saddled; just pack up your belongings and get going. It’s about a two day’s ride to Blois, so I expect you both to return in five days, at the most. If you are not back in five days, I will send a search party after you. But, please, don’t make me come looking for you two,” he paused. “I have too few men to spare as it is.”

“We’ll do our best to ward off evil bandits, raiders and hooligans that wish to do us harm, won’t we Porthos?” D’Artagnan joked as he clapped the larger man’s shoulder.

“Rubbish.” Porthos dismissed the very idea of danger with a shrug. “We’ll ride to Blois like we’re mindin’ our own business on a routine mission; nobody will have reason to mess wit’ us.”

“Nevertheless, Porthos,” the captain stood to his full height. “You must keep your guard up and about you at all times. Watch your surroundings and make sure you are not being followed; always remain vigilant and aware. Speak to no one and make haste. Do _not_ stop, except overnight to rest. Good luck, gentlemen.” 

“Thank you, Captain,” the two Musketeers nodded.

“Put this someplace safe on your person, Porthos; do not let this letter fall into the wrong hands.” The captain stated his warning with deliberate intent as he handed the larger Musketeer the letter.

“Yes sir,” Porthos replied, clenching tightly to the letter. His dark eyes brewed with a hardened sense of determination. “We won’t let His Majesty down; we won't let you down, neither—not if I ca’ help it.”

“Very well,” Tréville smiled. “A safe journey and godspeed, gentlemen.” The captain clapped each of the boys on the shoulder then rounded the desk to sit in his chair to begin paperwork. “Porthos, a moment alone, please.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a quiet glance as the young Gascon left the office and shut the door. He went back to Athos’ room to begin gathering their belongings, all the while wondering what the captain needed to discuss with Porthos that he couldn’t say in front of him. _Why is the captain keeping me further in the dark but not Porthos?_

Athos had sat awake in bed-- leaning against several pillows-- while waiting impatiently for his friends to return. _I should be in there with them, dammit!_

Just as the sick Musketeer began to doze, he finally heard the heavy sound of boots coming toward the door and sat up in anticipation. Athos was instantly alarmed at the grim expression of d’Artagnan as he entered the room alone.

“What’s going on?” Athos asked, looking out the door for the large Musketeer. “Where’s Porthos?”

“He’s coming, the captain just needed a word with him alone.” D’Artagnan spoke to his friend as he gathered up his weapons belt.

At last, Porthos entered the room, his features looking dour with his jaw set hard and his lips pursed.

“What did the captain say?” Athos grilled Porthos. “Did you get a mission?”

“Yeah, we go’ a mission,” Porthos replied. Without another word, the large Musketeer gathered his doublet draped over the back of the chair beside Athos’ bed. 

The large Musketeer started for the door when Athos caught his arm, stopping him short. “Wait a minute, dammit! You’re just going to leave without talking to me?” he was incredulous. “What is the miss…?”

“Athos, we don’t have time to explain,” d’Artagnan curtly interrupted. “We’re in a hurry and we’ve got to get on the road.”

“Porthos, wait a moment, please.” Athos held firm with his steely grip then pulled himself to his feet. He wobbled and swayed in place, though his grip on the strong arm did not loosen. The lieutenant shook away the dizziness as the blood thundered in his ears and his vision greyed. “Tell me where you are going, Porthos,” he whispered, leaning into the large Musketeer for support.

“This doesn’t concern you, Athos.” D’Artagnan snapped, growing impatient while waiting at the door. “Porthos, we need to go now.”

“I’m not letting go until you tell me where this mission is taking you.” Athos wrapped his fingers tighter around Porthos’ arm; his steely tone growled low and threatening. “If my brothers are riding into danger, might I have the courtesy of knowing where you are going in case something goes wrong? Am I not worthy of such information?”

“This is a confidential mission, Athos.” D’Artagnan hissed quietly as he stepped back into the room and shut the door.

“Goddammit!” Athos exploded in anger. “This is _me_ you are talking to… I’m not some damn fool, greenhorn recruit!” The Musketeer uncharacteristically cursed then fell heavily on the edge of the bed as he was overcome with another wave of dizziness. He rested his head in his hands, staring at the floor while saying nothing more.

“Alright,” Porthos relented. He hated keeping secrets from his brothers every bit as much as he hated secrets being kept from him. Besides, he was right that if something happened to them, Athos should know where they were going. The large Musketeer knew they were already at a disadvantage without Athos and Aramis to watch their backs; why make matters worse by keeping the lieutenant in the dark?

“We have to deliver a private letter from the king to Marie de Hautefort at the Château Royal de Blois. We don’t know what the let’er says, but I’m guessin’ it must be somethin’ important. Once we put the letter in ‘er hands, we’re free to come home.” Porthos clapped Athos on the shoulder with false enthusiasm. “What coul’ possibly go wrong, eh?”

“You just _had_ to ask, didn’t you? Plenty can go wrong, Porthos!” Athos snapped, growling and throwing his hands up in disbelief. “Do you realize this mission will take you into river country where highwaymen and raiders are known to prowl? Did you think of that?”

“Of course I thought of it, dammit!” Porthos snarled angrily. “We are Musketeers, Athos. Every bloody time we have a mission like ‘is we put our lives at risk,” the large man reminded. “I am not going to cower in fear from an assignment expected of me; no matter where our missions take us.”

“That is not what I am saying, Porthos.” Athos hissed through his teeth. “You should know I never would eschew from my duties as a Musketeer either. Do you think so little of me that I would even suggest such a thing?”

“Of course not, Athos.” Porthos’ angry tone softened.

“All I am saying is for you to keep your eyes open and watch each other’s back,” Athos warned. “I know the village of Blois well; as I also know the road between Orléans and Blois. There are sordid characters who loiter along the river looking to raid the deliveries from ships and also to rob unsuspecting travelers. Speak to no one while on that road, or even in Blois, for that matter. Trust no one; be wary of everyone.” 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “You speak as though we were Daniel heading into the lion’s den.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I am saying,” Athos deadpanned. “That area is a den of thieves, d’Artagnan, so be careful. Dammit, I should be going with you!” The Musketeer growled as he slammed his fist down on his knee.

“Rubbish, ‘at’s the last thing you need right now, Athos,” the large Musketeer voiced softly. “A dangerous mission like this is no place for you just yet. Sight tight here; we’ll be back before ya know it.” Porthos squeezed Athos on the shoulder reassuringly.

“I wish I shared your confidence, my friend,” Athos shook his head. “But nothing is ever that simple with us, you should know that.” The Musketeer lieutenant stared at his friends, concern etched on his face. “Don’t make me come down there looking for the two of you,” he forced a smile.

“We’ve already heard that same threat from the captain,” d’Artagnan huffed with amusement. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back before you even have time to miss us,” the Gascon promised.

“I already am worried, d’Artagnan,” Athos muttered. _Something is not right about this mission. I don’t know what it is, but I have a bad feeling something is going to happen._ “Both of you be careful. . . and watch out for the lions.”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marie de Hautefort (1616 - 1691), was a lady-in-waiting and a royal favorite of King Louis XIII and King Louis XIV. She was the trusted friend and confidante of both kings, even acting as political advisor—particularly for Louis XIII. It was proven that she spied against Cardinal Richelieu for Queen Anne, and was one of the Queen's most trusted informants, working more for the queen in secret than the king.
> 
> Marie de Hautefort was born in Hautefort and raised at the Château de Hautefort in the Périgord, located in the beautiful Aquitane region of southern France. For the sake of the story, I have Mademoiselle Marie staying at the Château de Blois, which was given as a gift by King Louis XIII to his brother, Gaston, duc d'Orléans.


	2. The Loire River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, I can see that it may take some working over on your friend here—as well as yourself—to get the information we need. But you will break eventually—you can count on it. Your life from here on out is going to be a living hell,” the man spit through his teeth. “A living hell for both of you… that much I will promise.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan rode side by side with Paris now behind them, traveling south to Blois. Outside of town, Porthos stopped his horse on the side of the road and dismounted.

“What are you doing?” d’Artagnan asked, still mounted.

“Remove your pauldron and bury it deep in your saddlebag, d’Artagnan,” the large Musketeer instructed. “Do it now, the less conspicuous we appear on this mission the better. “With these on,” Porthos held up his unbuckled pauldron, “we’re automatically drawin’ attention to ourselves—makin’ us potential targets.”

“I don’t like this,” the young Musketeer grumbled as he dismounted to unbuckle and remove his pauldron. “We shouldn’t have to hide who, _or what,_ we are, Porthos!”

“I agree, d'Artagnan.” Porthos nodded as he buried his coveted pauldron identifying him as a Musketeer, deep underneath his extra clothing. “But this is no ordinary mission and we have to be careful.”

“Where did you put that letter?” d’Artagnan asked as he buried his own pauldron under his fresh linens.

“Somewhere safe,” Porthos answered succinctly. 

“Yes, I understand it’s somewhere safe, Porthos.” The Gascon rolled his eyes, slightly irritated. “But _where_ is it?”

“Nevermind, pup,” Porthos skirted the question. “If we’re captured and they torture you for answers, you won’t have to lie.”

“Are you serious?” D’Artagnan’s voice raised about two octaves; he clenched his jaw muscles tightly. “I don’t need to be protected, Porthos,” he spat. “I need to be able to do my job. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“Let’s get going and do our jobs then,” Porthos growled. 

The duo mounted their horses and rode along in silence until they reached the forest edge of Torfou. Despite all their experiences as Musketeers surviving fights, battles and attacks, this forest brought especially calamitous memories. They instantly recognized the scene where they had been attacked less than two months ago, and they both shuddered.

D’Artagnan’s muscles tensed as he gripped the reins tighter and kicked his horse to a faster pace. The young Gascon darted his eyes around the vicinity, turning his head from the left to the right, scanning between the trees on both sides of the road.

“I know you’re nervous, d’Artagnan, but try not to appear so obvious,” Porthos cautioned. “Just relax and try to look natural, but stay vigilant.”

“Aren’t you at least a _little_ nervous?” D’Artagnan whispered sideways.

“Of course I am,” Porthos muttered. “I haven’t forgotten about this godforsaken forest—or what happened here—I just try not to think about it.”

“Sometimes I have dreams about this place,” the young man admitted softly. “I don’t remember anything in my dreams but pieces, more like broken images. . .” his voice trailed.

“Well, you were the first to go down; I doubt you would remember much.” Porthos shook his head at the still-vivid memory.

_“D’Artagnan!” Porthos tried to warn as two shots rang out. . . d’Artagnan jerked forward and fell face down to the ground._ The memory that flashed through Porthos’ mind sent cold chills down his spine.

Porthos avoided looking into the trees but kept his eyes fixated on the road ahead; otherwise the memories would have been too distracting. The large man knew he needed to keep his mind focused solely on the mission at hand—reflecting on the past could wait for another time—or else he would be putting the both of them at great risk. 

Neither spoke again until they saw the village sign of Chamarande. “We could stop by and see Aramis, if we weren’t so pressed for time.” D’Artagnan joked as they rode past the village.

“No, I don’t think he’s here anyway,” Porthos replied. “I overheard Cécile say somethin’ about goin’ to her home in Orléans; that’s where she was born and raised, so she said.”

“Oh, but aren’t we going through Orléans too?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we are,” Porthos nodded. “It is where we turn west toward Blois. We will follow along the Loire River on the road all the way from Orléans to Blois.”

“Where are we stopping for the night?” D’Artagnan yawned as his interest in conversation waned.

“We’ll stop in Cercottes,” Porthos answered. “I know the couple who run the inn there and they can be trusted.”

“I’ve never stopped in Cercottes before—first time for everything, I guess.”

*****

The evening sky was colorfully painted with hues of pink and purple when the boys finally arrived in Cercottes. The Musketeers handed off their horses to a young stable boy as Porthos dropped a few coins in his little hand. “Merci, Monsieur!” The boy smiled as he led the two horses to the stable.

After getting a quick bite to eat, Porthos and d’Artagnan retired to their room, turning in early so they could get an early start in the morning. Sitting with his back to the young Gascon, Porthos pulled off his boots carefully. In the right boot, he could feel the outline of the letter folded underneath the insole’s fabric, where it would remain safely hidden for the duration of the trip.

The next morning, the boys were already on their horses and riding toward Orléans as the birds began sweetly serenading and welcoming the rising sun, brightening a new day. 

“Ah, it’s a beautiful mornin’, brother.” Porthos smiled as he gazed at the eastern sky painted in lovely shades of red and orange. “Let’s get this damn letter delivered so we can get back home.”

“I hope Athos is doing alright,” d’Artagnan remarked, his mind distant. “Without someone there to make sure he gets his rest, his cough will only worsen.”

“Exactly why I want to get back to the garrison,” Porthos muttered. “Athos is just stubborn enough to do somethin’ foolish and there’s no one there to stop ‘im.”

“But surely, the captain won’t let Athos get back to duty unless he is fit and ready—which he is not. I keep telling you, Porthos, to stop worrying so much,” d’Artagnan asserted.

“The cap’n is stretched thin on manpower; he doesn’ ha’ time to babysit,” Porthos countered.

“Is that Orléans up ahead?” D’Artagnan motioned with his head toward the town.

“Yes,” Porthos nodded warily. “Listen, Orléans is a busy river port town with some shady characters lookin’ to make easy money off travelers. Keep your eyes open and watch for anyone following us or acting suspicious.”

“Will do,” d’Artagnan nodded with agreement. He sat up straighter in the saddle while taking notice of the people milling about in the streets. Along the river, transport boats sat moored by the docks as workers unloaded goods to be delivered to the nearby shops.

The town bustled with energy in the early morning sunlight as the town folk readied for another day of business. D’Artagnan soon found himself engrossed in watching the scurried activity of the people, many of whom smiled warmly at the Gascon as he rode past. _The people here in Orléans seem quite friendly enough. What is Porthos talking about when referring to the “shady characters” of this town? I see no evidence of such behavior—it’s certainly better than the ports in Le Havre._

The Musketeers reached the junction in the road turning them due west toward Blois, following parallel with the Loire River. D’Artagnan smiled as he watched the riverboats floating along in both directions. Some boats prepared to dock in Orléans; while others floated past them downriver toward Blois, or perhaps on toward the open seas.

Porthos couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being followed, but as he turned in his saddle to look behind them, there was no one in sight. The large Musketeer continued checking in all directions for trackers as they traveled down the road. “I don’t like ‘is,” Porthos complained as he scratched his head nervously.

“What’s the matter?” d’Artagnan asked with alarm. “Do you see someone following us?” The young Gascon looked around cautiously but didn’t see any followers.

“No, but I have a feelin’ in my head that somethin’s not right. Whenever my head starts itchin’, like it is now, I know somethin’s wrong.” Porthos reached up and scratched his head again.

D’Artagnan looked around, using his eyes to scan around him rather than turning his head, but still did not see any evidence of being tracked.

They traveled without incident as they neared the county seat of Mairie; Porthos’ suspicion that they were being trailed grew the longer they traveled. The two Musketeers instinctively held their hands near their pistols in case quick action was needed. 

The duo rounded a bend in the road, taking them into a heavily wooded area with tall, thick trees acting as a canopy to the road; the road was well-hidden from the river. The Musketeers were startled, yet not caught off-guard, at the sudden sound of gunfire coming from behind them as they rode deeper into the trees.

The Musketeers immediately went for the weapons at their side but as d’Artagnan raised his pistol upward, he was knocked from his horse by the force of a musket ball hitting his shoulder. An assailant jumped from his horse then grabbed the Gascon and pulled him to his feet; his pistol was pressed hard into the wounded man's right temple.

“Throw your weapon down,” the assailant laughed sadistically. "If you don't comply, I will blow a rather large hole in your friend’s head.” 

Porthos had gotten off one shot at their attackers earlier, hitting one of them in the chest and killing him instantly. However, there were still three others who now had their weapons trained on him, as well as the gunman with his pistol directed at d’Artagnan’s head.

The large Musketeer had no choice but to drop his weapon and raise his hands in surrender. “You’ll get nothin’ from me if you hurt the boy,” Porthos threatened with a menacing growl.

“Oh, we’ll get something from you, Musketeer,” the man’s voice dripped with evil pleasure. “Oh, and yes, you can count on us hurting the boy, as you call him.” With a swift rush of his hand, the man whipped his pistol into d’Artagnan’s temple, sending him falling to the ground, knocked out cold. “Give us what we want and we’ll let you go.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Porthos feigned ignorance. Inside, his heart ached for the still form now lying on the ground in a heap. Blood dripped slowly from the cut on d’Artagnan’s head; the first of blood spilled over nothing more than a piece of paper.

Suddenly, a swift punch to Porthos’ sides knocked him from his horse. The unexpected attack forced the breath from his lungs with an involuntary gasp before he even hit the hard ground.

“Stop!” the man beside d’Artagnan held up his hands to his fellow attackers. “We can’t do this out here, it’s too dangerous. Let’s get them back to the château where we will have all the privacy we’ll need to beat this secret correspondence from its hiding place. We know what you are carrying with you, Musketeer,” the man sneered. “We also know where it’s going, so don’t play innocent.”

Porthos knew that he had to comply and cooperate with these attackers, simply for d’Artagnan’s sake. “What about my friend?” The large Musketeer motioned toward the unconscious man on the ground. “He needs medical attention, dammit!”

The man laughed as he motioned his friends over to d’Artagnan’s side. “Put him on my horse once I’m in the saddle,” he ignored Porthos. “The young one rides with me; I will hold him as insurance, in case the big Musketeer gets any ideas about running off.”

Two henchmen lifted a limp d’Artagnan up to the rider, positioning him in the front of the saddle; the rider wrapped an arm around the young Gascon’s chest to hold him in place. “Try anything foolish,” he said to Porthos, “I won’t hesitate to slit his throat.” He uncovered his dagger so the sunlight gleamed off the blade as it hung on the man’s hip near his hand.

Resigned with defeat, Porthos mounted his horse in compliance to the man's violent threat. The Musketeer rode beside the henchmen but behind the leader, grasping a limp and bleeding d’Artagnan in his arms. 

“While we ride to the château, I would suggest you think hard about what secrets you are hiding and whether they are worth the blood and suffering of your friend. If that’s not motivation enough, I’ve got plenty of plans for you too, big man.”

“You don’t scare me,” Porthos growled. “You are nothin’ but two-bit hired goons. Who’s payin’ ya to do his dirty work, eh?”

“It matters not who hired us, but the money is great motivation. We will pull out all the stops, if necessary, to get what our employer wants. I would think someone else’s secret would not important enough to be tormented for, especially when given the choice to stop it. Everyone has a breaking point, Musketeer.” 

“I don’t,” Porthos snarled defiantly.

“Well, I can see that it may take some working over on your friend here—as well as yourself—to get the information we need. But you will break eventually; you can count on it. Your life from here on out is going to be a living hell,” the man spit through his teeth. “A living hell for both of you… that much I will promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Loire River is the longest river in France. It runs north and then west for 1,020 km (or 634 miles) and empties into the Atlantic Ocean.
> 
> The Loire Valley has been called the “Garden of France,” with its picturesque river scenery dotted with a thousand châteaux, both in the valley and along the river. River traffic increased particularly in the medieval times for shipping merchandise. Toll bridges were put in use and today some of these bridges still remain, dating over 800 years old. River navigation was frequently stopped by flood or drought. In 1707, floods were said to have drowned around 50,000 people, with the water rising more than 3 m (9.8 ft) in two hours in Orléans, one of the river’s largest and most important port cities.


	3. The Dungeon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “On your feet, Musketeer,” Henri said as he roughly grabbed Porthos under the armpits and pulled him up. The man pulled out his pistol and held it to the large Musketeer’s head, “try anything stupid and I will blow your head clean off.” The gunman forcibly pushed the Musketeer forward into the château and down the spiral staircase into the darkness of the dungeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank You to ALL my lovely readers for the encouraging start! Thank you for the comments and Kudos-you make my day!  
> Things are beginning to look bleak for the boys. To use a quote from Margo Channing, "Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night." Indeed it will be, and then some. . .

The group of assailants and their hostages rode up to the exquisite Château de Meung-sur-Loire, galloping across the moat toward the large grey stone structure. The front of the manor faced south toward the river, with the main structure being flanked by four round towers surprisingly no taller than the brick chimneys jutting above the roof. 

Porthos remained on his horse awaiting instructions from the leader who lowered d’Artagnan down to the waiting arms of his men. The Gascon remained unconscious, his face streaked with blood that now trickled down his neck and stained his linen shirt. Blood oozed from his wounded shoulder, forming streaks on his right hand as the blood dripped to the ground. 

Porthos shook his head with anger as he stared at the bloodied, unconscious Gascon, who just that morning had watched the ships sailing on the river with a smile of delight—which had not gone unnoticed by the large Musketeer. 

The men dropped the limp d’Artagnan, allowing him to fall to the ground in an unceremonious heap. Porthos fisted his reins so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, drawing beads of red. He bit his lip to keep from cursing at the men as they laughed at the young Musketeer but he didn’t dare, not without risking severe punishment to himself, or worse yet, to d’Artagnan. 

“Get down from your horse,” the leader demanded. “Tell me where you have hidden Marie d’Hautefort’s letter from the king.”

Porthos dismounted his horse and shrugged. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” 

One of the hired goons hit Porthos on the back of the head with a pistol, knocking the large man to his knees. The Musketeer gasped but gritted his teeth against the pain throbbing in his head and dulling his vision. He could feel the slow trickle of blood beginning to run down his scalp to his neck, causing a slight tickle. He reached sideways to retrieve his hat which had been knocked off by the blow to his head and clutched it tightly in his hands.

“Search his saddlebags,” the ruthless leader ordered. 

The men set out to emptying the saddlebags on both horses, tossing the contents to and fro. They laughed with delight as the hidden pauldrons were uncovered as the last of the clothes were pulled out from the bags. “Well, look what we have here, Henri, two Musketeer pauldrons. Now, why would they conceal their identities?” The man named Gaston laughed viciously.

“Because they didn’t wish to be noticed as they delivered the king’s letter,” Henri said. “We know how seriously the King’s Musketeers consider their duty to King and Country, do we not?”

“There is nothing else in these saddlebags, Henri; we’ve checked every pocket and possible hiding place.”

“Where is the letter, Musketeer?” Henri grabbed Porthos by the hair and yanked his head back, causing the large man to almost tip backward.

Porthos shook his head and remained quiet.

Henri took his fist and slammed it into Porthos’ jaw, sending the Musketeer flying sideways to the ground. Drops of blood from his newly split lip dripped into the dirt underneath him. The large man wiped away the blood with his fist, clenching his teeth with defiance and cold hatred against the men assaulting him. 

Porthos reminded himself that he must keep the king’s correspondence a secret, no matter what they did or how much pain they caused him. During the ride to the château, he tried to mentally prepare himself for the possibility of torture; though staying calm and keeping his mouth shut was easier said than done. Now that he was being put to the test, he knew it was going to take every ounce of strength he had to endure the pain and suffering yet to come. _God please, give me strength,_ Porthos prayed.

“On your feet, Musketeer,” Henri said as he roughly grabbed Porthos under the armpits and pulled him up. The man pulled out his pistol and held it to the large Musketeer’s head. "Try anything stupid and I will blow your head clean off.” The gunman forcibly pushed the Musketeer forward into the château and down the spiral staircase into the darkness of the dungeon. 

Jean-Pierre pulled the Gascon to his feet, eliciting a groan from the now semi-conscious Musketeer. The brute slapped the young man across the face to awaken him but it only evoked more moaning as d’Artagnan’s head fell limply backward, as he lacked the strength to hold his head up.

Jean-Pierre and Jacques dragged d’Artagnan to the lower level of the abandoned château where the band of aggressors would have complete privacy to perform their brutal deeds of torment in the dungeon, being neither seen nor heard. 

They tossed the young Gascon into the small cobblestone room designed for temporarily housing unwilling guests of torment. D’Artagnan splayed across the stone floor before rolling to a stop on the same side as his wounded shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain.

Porthos stood waiting for his young friend, having arrived just seconds before him. He instantly knelt beside his friend, turning the wounded man gently onto his back. “D’Artagnan, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me, lit’le brother.”

The Gascon moaned in agony as the pain in his shoulder flared with hot intensity. “God,” he hissed, “it hurts!” 

“I know it does, mon ami,” Porthos soothed. “I’m goin’ to take a quick look at it, see how bad it is. I’ll try not to hurt ya.” The large man proceeded to unfasten the Gascon’s doublet then he pulled it open to reveal the shirt now soaked with blood. He rolled d’Artagnan over to check his back and breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing an exit wound with soaking crimson staining the shirt. “Thank God,” he breathed.

“Good news is that the ball passed through your shoulder,” Porthos patted d’Artagnan’s arm gently. “Bad news is that I have no bandages to wrap up your wound and no way to clean it.”

Just then, Henri and Gaston entered the makeshift prison cell to toss the Musketeer strips of gauze to cover the wound, laughing at Porthos’ attempt to comfort his companion. “Oh, we don’t want the wound to get infected, now do we? We want him around to enjoy the first of many wounds he’ll sustain unless you give us what we want.”

“Don’t tell them anything, Porthos!” D’Artagnan yelled just before a boot violently landed in his midsection. The air was forced from his lungs in a sudden rush, leaving him writhing on the floor stunned and breathless. 

“Damn you to hell,” Porthos growled as he lunged for the attackers. He rushed Gaston like an angry bear, knocking the surprised man to the floor where he smacked his head against the stone. Henri took his pistol and whipped Porthos on the head, knocking the large Musketeer off Gaston and into a crumpled heap against the wall.

D’Artagnan found his breath enough to allow a raspy scream at seeing Porthos knocked unconscious by the violent blow to the head.

“Where is the letter?” Henri pulled d’Artagnan partially up by his hair. “Tell me where the bloody letter is and we’ll let you and your friend go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” d’Artagnan hissed, his jaw set hard with defiance. The young man’s dark eyes stared at Henri with pure hatred. 

“You are a stubborn pair, I’ll give you that,” Henri huffed, still fisting a handful of hair. 

Without thinking, d’Artagnan spit into the man’s face. The ill-thought action quickly brought a sudden, searing pain flashing from his arm and into every part of his being as Henri twisted and dug his thumb into the ragged flesh of his wounded shoulder. “Where is the damn letter?”

The young Musketeer went limp in Henri’s hands, passed out from the white-hot pain. Disgusted, the man allowed d’Artagnan to fall to the floor. “Bandage up that shoulder wound then hang ‘em up in the manacles.” The sadistic man motioned to the restraints hanging from rusty metal rings in the ceiling. "Let’s give them time to think about protecting their precious secret letter.”

It took two men holding the limp body of Porthos as the other two men stood on short ladders fastening the manacles around the large wrists until he was hanging limply by his arms.

After half-heartedly wrapping the shoulder, they had a far easier time lifting d’Artagnan, as he was hung in the same manner as Porthos, with his wrists secured tightly in the chained manacles. 

The savage group laughed at the sight of the two Musketeers hanging limply by their arms, bleeding and bruised, though they still did not have the letter they were paid to retrieve.

*****

**Orléans:**

 

Aramis and Cécile strolled arm-in-arm on a walking path next to the Loire River, walking in the direction of the setting sun. The sky ahead was vivid with pastel colors as though the heavens were a freshly painted canvas. The blue sky deepened into a brilliant purple, fading into a soft pink and then finally orange as yellow rays streaked highlights across each color.

“Oh Aramis, I wish this moment would last forever,” Cécile whispered as she stared at the beautiful sky. “If only I could stay here in your arms surrounded by all this beauty, I would be happy forever; I would never want to leave. I have so enjoyed your company these last few days, my sweet love.”

“I also wish this moment would never end.” Aramis cupped her face then pulled Cécile into a soft kiss, pressing her body into his. He paused to step back and gaze into her blue eyes smiling back at him; he then pulled her back into another kiss. The Spaniard began kissing her ear, moving down to her neck as he slowly began to go lower, his hand sliding down to her chest.

“Aramis!” the nurse smacked his hand in shock, looking around to see if anyone was watching. “Not out here in the open; people are watching us,” Cécile said as she noticed the interested stares at the amorous couple.

“I don’t care if people are watching.” Aramis smiled with a wicked grin. “I’m in love and I want to tell the whole world.”

“Well, you can tell the world without _showing_ the world,” Cécile playfully scolded. “Watch your hands, my dear monsieur.”

“I want you so bad, Cécile,” Aramis whispered warmly into her ear. 

Taking both his hands in hers, she bit his lip softly, “then let’s go home.” She gazed into his face, waiting for his reaction.

Smiling, he turned around and offered his elbow as they walked back toward the carriage where it waited to take the happy couple home.

Cécile pulled Aramis by the hand across the threshold of her flat, giggling in anticipation. He swung her around, pressing her against the closed door, then kissed her neck before slowly making his way down her chest.

She led the way to her bedroom and shut the door behind them, leaving the world outside.

*****

_Porthos and d’Artagnan’s bloodied bodies stand chained to a white stone wall. Their eyes are swollen shut and their faces bruised from relentless pounding of fists. It’s probably for the best that they cannot see the row of rifles taking aim at their battered bodies._

_“Have you any last words?” A sardonic voice called from out of view. “Tell us where the letter is and you can go free.”_

_“Rubbish, we’re not tellin’ ya a damn thing,” Porthos said stubbornly. “Jus’ shoot an’ get it over wit.’”_

_“Aramis, why didn’t you come to help us? Don’t you. . .” his words were cut off by the thunderous volley of rifles firing in unison._

“No!” Aramis screamed as he sat up in bed, his chest heaving with sudden panic. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip, with a shaking hand he wiped the sweat away. “Oh God. . .”

“Aramis, what’s wrong?” Cécile asked as she threaded her fingers through his matted hair. “You had a bad dream but it’s over now. You’re okay, it’s over.” The nurse soothed, watching him with concern in the bright moonlight streaming in through the window. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I dreamt that Porthos and d’Artagnan were being executed for… something, I don’t know what.” Aramis buried his face in his hands at the vivid picture still in his mind. “I saw them standing in front of a firing squad,” he paused. “They were beaten and bloodied, barely able to stand.”

“Mother Mary. . .” Cécile’s voice trailed.

“I heard a voice ask them something about a letter,” his brow wrinkled. “Porthos wouldn’t tell him anything,” he paused, “then I heard d’Artagnan ask why I didn’t come to save them… just as the rifles fired.” Aramis’ breath hitched in his throat, allowing only a terrified whimper to escape.

“Oh, my sweet Aramis,” Cécile took the marksman into her arms as he began to cry. “Sweetheart, it was just a dream; it wasn’t real,” she soothed.

“No, it wasn’t just a dream,” Aramis countered. “Something is wrong, very wrong. I’ve had bad dreams before, but not like this. This was so. . . so _real.”_

“Perhaps you should. . .” 

“I need to go,” Aramis abruptly jumped out of bed to fetch his clothes.

“That’s just what I was going to suggest,” Cécile frowned with understanding. “You would never forgive yourself if something really happened yet you did nothing.”

“Something is wrong, I can feel it. I need to find out where they are and what is going on.” Aramis finished dressing then packed up his belongings. “Is there a horse that I may borrow?”

“Yes, I will take you to Alphonse,” she replied. “He’s a good family friend; I know he will give you what you need if I ask.” Cécile jumped from the bed to get dressed.

The eastern sky was just beginning to brighten with shades of orange as Aramis sat upon the borrowed black stallion. He leaned over to kiss Cécile on the forehead. “I will make it up to you, I promise. I will come back again and we can spend more time together then.”

“I understand, my sweet Aramis.” Cécile grasped his hand tightly as tears filled her eyes. “You need to take care of your brothers first. Go, find them and I will pray for their safety and your safe return.” 

“Just pray that I’m not too late,” Aramis muttered low as he turned the horse toward the open stable door. 

“Please be safe,” she whispered. “I love you, Aramis,” she called after him as he galloped away.

Aramis raised his hat and waved it without looking back as he sped down the road toward Paris. _Please God, grant me speed so that I can help my brothers. Above all, dear God, don’t let me be too late. . .”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With over one thousand châteaux to choose from in the Loire River Valley, I found my château for the story quite by accident! I was doing geographical research and came across the Château de Meung-sur-Loire and decided to research it specifically. 
> 
> The **Château de Meung-sur-Loire** is a castle and former episcopal palace in the commune of Meung-sur-Loire, near Orléans and just east of Blois.
> 
> The château, located next to a collegial church, was the country residence of the Bishop of Orléans. However, the bishops of Orléans abandoned the castle at the start of the Wars of Religion, (1562-1598) until the early 18th century. The castle during that time was occasionally abandoned, or was being used as a prison.  
> It was partially destroyed several times. The oldest still-existing parts date from the 12th century and were built by Manassès de Seignelay (Bishop of Orléans from 1207 to 1221). Still standing is the main rectangular-plan building, flanked by three towers, a fourth having been destroyed. It was occupied by the English during the Hundred Years War. 
> 
> Beneath the castle are dungeons, a chapel and various medieval torture instruments, including one used for water torture.


	4. Chance Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you think that I’m just going to let you ride off by yourself when our brothers could be in danger. . .” his voice trailed. “Well, you are sadly mistaken, my friend. All for one, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We haven't seen Athos in two chapters but, don't worry, I couldn't keep the handsome and suave Musketeer in his room for long-not when he has other plans. Athos defies orders to save his brothers... and along the way, a chance encounter saves another.

Athos had been anxiously awaiting his two brother’s return from their secretive mission for the better part of the day. The Musketeer sat outside on the picnic tabletop with his feet resting on the bench all afternoon; he stared intently at the gate waiting, though it had been cool and breezy with scattered rain. Even the weather couldn't deter the man.

That is, until the captain ordered Athos inside after he noticed his Musketeer shivering and nearly doubled over in a fit of coughing. “Why on earth are you outside in the rain?” Captain Tréville snapped. “Go on up to your room and get back in bed; you shouldn’t be outside getting wet with that cough of yours.”

“Thank you all the same, sir, but I prefer to wait for Porthos and d’Artagnan’s return out here,” Athos drawled with temerity.

The captain shook his head at the stubbornness of the Musketeer. “Athos, that wasn’t a suggestion; it was a direct order. Now, get on up to your room before you make your condition worse. Porthos and d’Artagnan may have been delayed due to the weather and will probably be home tomorrow-- it’s getting too late for travel now.” The captain turned on his heel and went to his office muttering under his breath. “I have to look after these men as though they were children.”

“Delayed due to weather.” Athos repeated to himself with a huff of skepticism. “Not likely,” he shook his head. Upon standing, the lieutenant had to steady himself by leaning heavily on the table until the dizziness passed and a new round of coughing ceased. 

Athos resolved that he would begin at dawn in search of his brothers, despite his illness. If there was a safe way to travel at night he would set out now rather than waste several good hours, since time was of the essence. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had caused the delay of his friends and he wasn't going to sit around the garrison tomorrow doing nothing but waiting.

Athos went up to his room and packed a small bag of extra clothing then climbed into bed to get some rest before his long journey ahead. After some time spent tossing and turning, worrying about his friends, he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

His was a restless sleep and after waking one too many times, Athos decided to get up to begin his journey presently. _Why waste valuable time when I wasn’t sleeping anyway?_ Athos thought. The Musketeer lit a candle allowing him to see in the dark room before changing into fresh clothes and donning his uniform. 

He buckled his weapons belt over the leather doublet and attached the desired weapons, taking two pistols and his main gauche, before finally strapping on his sword. He grabbed his hat and opened the door; he peeked out beforehand to make sure the way was clear. He took the candle, carefully cupped his hand in front of the flame to block the wind, then stepped out at a quick pace toward the garrison stables.

Stopping in the stables, Athos was glad he had the candle to maneuver around in the darkness. He gathered his saddle and necessary tack then brought them over to Roger’s stall where he prepared his horse for travel. 

He led the large black horse to the stable door then blew out the candle, allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the dark. At last, Athos mounted the horse and kicked the animal into motion, beginning his do-or-die mission toward Blois to find his two missing brothers. 

Never could he think of a time when he yearned more for the company and help of his dear friend, Aramis. _I wish you were here with me, brother. But then again, you would have tried talking me out of this foolish mission. Perhaps it is a fools mission, but when it comes to the lives of my brothers, I would rather be safe than sorry. Something tells me that if I don’t go to find them, I will be sorry._

Athos rode through the empty streets of Paris making his way by the scant moonlight until he finally reached the edge of town and onto the open road without incident. Once on the road he set out on the familiar route south toward Orléans, hoping the sun would rise long before he hit the forested woods of Torfou.

*****

**On the Road to Paris:**

Aramis was making good time on his borrowed stallion, passing through villages just beginning to awaken and bustle for the business day. His mind was set firmly on reaching Paris, so much so that he paid little attention to his surroundings and the terrain as it blurred past. Nothing was going to prevent him from reaching the garrison where he hoped he would learn the whereabouts of his friends.

Nearing the little village of Toury, a group of armed highwaymen waited behind a copse of trees as they watched a lone rider racing toward the village with obvious haste. They hoped this rider was on an important mission and could provide substantial ransom; perhaps he was carrying money or valuable correspondence to a recipient of high stature and with a deep purse.

This is exactly the lucky break the bandits had been waiting for. They backed their horses into the trees to better conceal themselves as they pulled out their pistols, ready to take aim as the rider passed. “Don’t kill the man; let’s find out if he’s got anythin’ of value to us first,” the leader ordered.

Aramis noticed the village sign and sighed, _still too damn far to go._ The sound of horse hooves rushing at him from his right brought the marksman out of his reverie. He didn’t have time to react when suddenly the sound of a gunshot rang in his ears, followed by the indisputable burning sensation in his right side. 

One moment, he was watching the village of Toury ahead on the road when suddenly he was seeing a blur of blue sky, green trees and brown dirt as he tumbled from his horse to the ground. The air gushed from his lungs as he hit the hard ground and rolled a few times, leaving him dazed. The medic began to fade but was abruptly brought back to awareness as he felt rough hands dragging him across the ground into the treeline.

“What’cha got on ya, rider?” A dirty, smelly man with nearly brown teeth asked. “Why you hurryin’ so, eh? Maybe you’re carrying somethin’ of value to us?”

Aramis shook his head, still too dazed to make sense of the unforeseen quandary he found himself in. “I d-don’t have anything of value on m-me. I was returning to Paris. . .”

“Bloody hell, Antoine,” exclaimed one man. “Look, we got ourselves a Musketeer! Look and see,” the bandit said. He pointed at the marksman’s pauldron, with the unmistakable fleur-de-lis symbol of the King’s Musketeers engraved in leather, on the right shoulder.

“Holy Mary Mother of God, do you know what this means?” Antoine said to his two companions. “The king’s got real deep pockets; maybe he’s willin’ to pay us lots of money to get his Musketeer back,” the man laughed viciously.

Aramis kicked up with his foot and connected hard with the man’s shin, doubling him over in pain. The marksman took the opportunity to scramble to his feet then run a short distance, until the other two bandits caught up to him.

The men tackled Aramis and sent him to the ground; the air forced from his lungs once again as he was buried under a pile of bodies. A boot slammed into his ribs which sent white-hot pain streaking through his body, further stealing the breath from his lungs. He felt his ribs give slightly as they cracked from the sudden booted assault.

Aramis groaned and tried to curl on his side as another onslaught of boots and fists pummeled his torso. There was little he could do but take the beating while writhing in the dirt, trying to protect his ribs from additional injury as the assault continued.

The marksman began feeling strange, as though floating on a cloud. The feeling had surprisingly caused him to burst out laughing, which angered his assailants further.

“Oh, so you think this is funny, Musketeer?" Antoine snarled. "Maybe we’ll stop ticklin’ ya and give you some real pain.”

Aramis felt himself being lifted to his feet, only to be knocked back down as a fist slammed into his jaw, snapping his head backward as he fell to the ground. The taste of copper filled his mouth as blood trickled between his teeth and down his chin. The marksman spit the blood out on the ground in stoic defiance.

The ruthless assault began anew with a fist slamming into his stomach, followed by laughter as they watched their victim writhe in pain and gasp for breath. Three sets of boots began kicking the Musketeer, causing incredible pain wherever the boots happened to land.

Aramis twisted and turned on the ground trying to escape the storm of boots striking his back, stomach, legs and ribs. An involuntary cry escaped his lips, immediately causing him to feel ashamed. _Don’t give them the satisfaction of hearing you cry out, Aramis. You are a King’s Musketeer!_ The marksman scolded himself.

The Musketeer bit his lip to stifle the groans of pain; he wasn’t going to give these monsters the satisfaction of hearing him cry out again. 

Aramis struggled to cling to consciousness but it was growing more difficult with every blow landing on his sore and battered body. As his vision began to grey, he heard the familiar sound of a wheellock pistol firing, followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground with a dull thud.

Curious at the intervention of an unknown intruder coming to his aid, Aramis tried to roll himself in the direction of the gunfire. He found his body too heavy to move and decided it would be best to gather his strength before trying to move again.

He listened to the sound of approaching footsteps, which then went chasing after the remaining two assailants running away toward their horses. The wounded Musketeer continued lying on the ground as he listened to the sound of a sword being pulled from its scabbard with a familiar ringing of steel. 

Aramis turned and followed with his eyes the two blurry forms sparring as the din of steel against steel echoed in the trees. He watched as one of his attackers tried to ward off the long, steel blade with a mere dagger; it was easily knocked from the attackers hand and sent flying into the grass. The man with the sword plunged his blade deep into the chest of the bandit, letting the momentum of the falling body pull the blade free. 

The wounded Musketeer croaked a raspy warning as he watched Antoine lower his pistol at the unknown intruder. He then watched with amazement as the intruder turned on his heel and, with lightning speed, he hurled his dagger through the air; the weapon landed on target deep in the bandit’s chest. 

Aramis watched as the intruder retrieved his weapon from the man’s chest, then wiped the blood on the dead man’s shirt, before sliding it into the scabbard behind his back. 

The disoriented marksman watched as the intruder approached then knelt down beside him. Something seemed very familiar with this ‘intruder’ so when he was rolled onto his back, he didn’t resist him or try fighting him off.

“Aramis, my God, what have they done to you?” the intruder asked.

“Ath's, is 'at you?” Aramis slurred. The wounded Musketeer finally allowed himself to cry out in pain and hot tears soon stung his eyes. He felt himself being pulled into the lap of his comforter until his head rested against Athos’ chest. Strong arms wrapped carefully around his hurting chest; gentle hands soothed away the relentless assault of pain tormenting his battered body.

How long the pair sat on the ground as Aramis drifted in and out of consciousness was unclear to either man; both Musketeers appeared content to sit and rest in the comfort of each other’s company before attempting the difficult task of moving.

Aramis was startled awake by harsh coughs jostling him as he was held against Athos’ chest. The ill Musketeer drew in a ragged breath then let it go, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Damn,” he cursed to himself at the stubborn cough plaguing his body.

Completely aware now, Aramis struggled to sit up so he could get a better look at his friend. “What are you doing here, Athos? How in the name of Heaven did you find me anyway? Why are you here when you should be in bed?” 

“You’re welcome,” Athos drawled while ignoring the hail of questions.

“No, seriously, Athos,” Aramis pressed. “What are you doing here, why did you come down this way? Where are Porthos and d’Artagnan?”

Athos sighed and drew in a deep breath, instantly regretting it as another round of wet coughs wracked his body. “Dammit, I don’t have time for this,” he growled as he leaned to his side.

Aramis winced as he sat up to rub soothing circles on Athos’ back; the medic's face grimaced with concern for his friend but also from the pain throbbing in his side. “Easy. . . just take shallow breaths. We sure are quite a pair.” Aramis laughed, but hissed in pain as his sore ribs made themselves known.

“What’s wrong?” Athos stared at Aramis’ hand cradling his ribs as he tried denying anything was wrong. What the medic failed to notice was the blood seeping between his fingers that refuted his claim. 

“You seem to forget, mon ami, that I know you and I know when you are hurting, so don’t bother lying to me.” Athos calmly began unbuttoning the doublet so he could peel away the layers to check on the wound.

“Nevermind me, Athos,” Aramis grumbled with impatience. “You haven’t answered my question, where are Porthos and d’Artagnan?”

“Let me check this bleeding wound first, dammit!” Athos growled. "The ball passed cleanly through your side, but you’ll need to get that looked at,” he smiled with relief.

“I will later,” Aramis paused, “but first answer my questions, will you?”

Athos’ face darkened as his jaws clenched in anger. “We need to get moving,” he tried to stand but Aramis held him fast.

“What the hell is going on, Athos? Dammit, talk to me!”

“Porthos and d’Artagnan were sent on a mission to deliver a secret letter from the king to one Marie d’Hautefort at the Château Royal de Blois,” he explained. “Unfortunately, they did not return when they were due yesterday. I feel something has happened to them; I feel something is wrong.”

“So you were going to Blois on your own?” Aramis was stunned. “Does the captain know you left?”

“Yes. . . and no,” Athos replied to both questions. “Aramis, I can’t shake the feeling that something bad has happened,” his eyebrows wrinkled with worry. “I am not returning to the garrison until I learn that they are well. I intend to travel to Blois and I will not stop searching until I find them.”

Aramis nodded his understanding. “I dreamt last night they were both hurt; I saw their bloodied faces. I saw them standing in front of a firing squad.” Aramis’ brow creased as he remembered the vivid details of his dream. “Athos, we need to find them!”

Athos shook his head. "No, you are in no condition to go anywhere but to the nearest doctor,” he protested, “I can find them on my own.”

“If you think that I’m just going to let you ride off by yourself when our brothers could be in danger. . .” his voice trailed. “Well, you are sadly mistaken, my friend. All for one, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” Athos nodded with a smile. He glanced over his wounded friend whose face was bleeding, bruised and swelling; his side still seeped blood from the bullet graze. “You are certainly in no condition to ride, Aramis. How can you help our brothers when you are so badly hurt yourself?”

“I’ll be alright; I’ve had worse,” he protested stubbornly. Aramis downplayed his injuries knowing his brothers were in trouble and, though he was in pain, he would move heaven and earth to come to their aid. “Time is wasting, Athos; we need to go now.”

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Athos inquired. “We need to ride to Blois with extreme haste,” he said bluntly. “Are you sure you can make it?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Aramis set his jaw hard with determination.

“Alright then, we ride to Blois.” Athos helped Aramis to his feet then waited patiently as the medic swayed on his feet. Finally, the pair made their way to the waiting horses.

Athos helped Aramis up into the saddle with more pushing on his part than the lieutenant was happy with. The medic had to bite his lip to suppress the cries of pain, though the agony was clearly evident on his face. Finally settled, the medic waited as Athos mounted his horse then paused beside his friend.

“Let’s go get our brothers back!” Athos called out as he kicked his horse into a run. Aramis fought to catch up while trying to ignore the pain now flaring through his torso. He brought his horse even with his friend so they were side-by-side on the road riding south. 

They didn’t know where their brothers were or how they would find them, but finding them was all that mattered. Together the duo raced their horses forward in a desperate hunt to save their missing brothers, wherever they were. They raced against time-- hoping against hope—and praying they weren’t already too late.


	5. The Whipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Porthos growled through gritted teeth. _Crack!_ The whip rang out again and again as Gaston rather enjoyed watching the large Musketeer writhing in pain and now crying out in anguish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Porthos and d'Artagnan...

_Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go._

_T.S. Eliot_

*****

Porthos slowly awakened to painful groaning. With the ringing in his ears, he couldn’t tell if the groans came from him or the man next to him. He tried to remember where he was but his sluggish mind couldn’t concentrate for the pain. He blinked his eyes in attempt to break through the fog but his vision remained fuzzy, dulling the surroundings to mere shadows in the dark room.

He tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain but the action only triggered agonizing pain to shoot from the back of his head to his temples. He instinctively moved to massage his temples, but only then did he discover that he couldn’t move his arms. Porthos suddenly realized he was shackled and hanging from the ceiling by his arms raised high above his head, though his feet still touched the ground and he could still stand. 

He discovered that he was stripped to his braies, making him feel somewhat violated in knowing they went through his clothing while he was unconscious. In a panic, Porthos scanned the room and found his and d’Artagnan’s clothes crumpled on the floor in a corner where they had been callously tossed. 

The Musketeer’s eyes zeroed in on the two pairs of boots that lay next to the crumpled clothing and prayed his boots were still intact. _I s’pose I’ll know whether or not they found what they were lookin’ for next time they come in,_ he thought.

“Bloody hell, what is this?” Porthos could no longer feel his arms, or for that matter, his hands or his fingers. The large Musketeer tried desperately to free his wrists but the movement only caused the metal bands to dig painfully deeper into his flesh. Soon, streams of red flowed down his arms to his armpits mixing with the streams of sweat. Porthos knew that not only was he prisoner to the iron restraints, he was also prisoner to this dungeon and to the evil men who tortured here.

A low moaning caught his attention. “D’Artagnan? Brother, is that you?” Porthos looked beside him to see the shadow of a figure hanging by his arms in the same manner. The sunlight streamed through the small block window and gleamed off the chains holding the young Musketeer; the Gascon fought against his restraints and tired to loosen his hands.

“Don’t bother, mon ami,” Porthos advised. “They have these manacles on tight; we ain’t gettin’ out of ‘em, no matter how much we struggle. You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep fightin'.”

“Where are we, Porthos?” The Gascon asked, his voice laced with pain. “How did we end up like this? I don’t remember anything.”

“You’ve been unconscious most of the time,” the large Musketeer reminded. “Don’t worry ‘bout it none,” Porthos muttered. “Trust me, there’s nothin’ worth rememberin'.”

The sound of the large iron cell door opening startled both men. “Well, look at this,” Henri marveled. “I am glad to see you awake, finally,” the ruthless man said to d’Artagnan. “We’re going to start with you.” 

“I don’t know anything so you’re wasting your time,” d’Artagnan snarled. “But I do know that you are nothing but a ruffian bougre.”

“D’Artagnan. . .” Porthos hissed a warning, though too late.

Henri’s fist landed on d’Artagnan’s face, snapping his head back. Blood burst from his nose and streamed down his lips and chin before dripping to the floor like drops of rain. 

A maniacal laugh escaped the bloody mouth of the young Gascon, prodding on the insatiable thirst for blood from the unmercifully cruel mercenary.

D’Artagnan was unprepared for the fist that pounded into the tender flesh of his stomach, forcing the breath from his body with a rush of air. The young man hung limply from the manacles, bleeding from his nose and desperately gasping to catch his breath from the violent punch.

“Enough!” Porthos yelled. “D’Artagnan, keep your mouth shut; don’t give ‘em any more reason to hurt you.” 

“You are in no position to order him, _Musketeer;_ that is my job alone,” Henri grinned smugly. 

“You’re delusional,” d’Artagnan spat. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“We shall see about that,” Henri countered. “You may soon change your mind. I want you to experience maximum suffering in our next activity; I will show you who’s in charge. Remember, none of this needs to happen if you would simply tell me where the letter is.”

 _I’ll be damned, they didn’t find it._ Porthos quietly sighed with relief.

“I don’t know where it is!” D’Artagnan yelled as he warily watched the men circling around him. Once again, he found himself struggling against the bands of iron gripping at his wrists and holding him in place. If only he could work his wrists free from the manacles. The Gascon would do anything to escape, though he would never leave his friend to suffer alone in this stone dungeon.

“Gaston, if you would please go fetch Jacques so we can get started,” Henri ordered. 

“What are you going to do?” Porthos asked with sudden alarm. “You bastards!” he cursed. “I will kill you if you hurt him!”

“Porthos, please don’t interfere; you’ll only make it worse on yourself.” D’Artagnan tried to put on a brave face, though inside he was terrified. “I’m a King’s Musketeer,” the young Gascon closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I can handle this.”

Gaston soon returned. "He’s on his way.” 

D’Artagnan turned his body in the direction of the cell door, to face his tormentor head on. Never had the young Gascon felt so vulnerable—and so frightened—as he felt now with his arms secured above his head, unable to fight against what lay in store.

Jacques entered the stone cell with an object in his hand, though it was too dark for d’Artagnan to determine what it could be.

The man raised his arm and swiftly snapped it down so that the end of the whip lashed on d’Artagnan’s bare chest with a _crack!_

The young Gascon arched his back as he screamed out from the sudden white-hot pain that emanated from his chest. The chains holding d’Artagnan in place rattled and clanked as the young man struggled to escape the sudden and furious storm of leather.

“Stop it, damn you!” Porthos screamed as another lashing was brought down on his friend.

“Where is the letter?” Henri yelled over the screaming. “Tell me and all this will stop.”

“I don’t know!” D’Artagnan screamed as another crack of the whip connected with his skin. 

“Shame, such loyalty from a fine soldier is going to waste on that pompous pansy of a king,” Henri shook his head.

 _Crack!_ D’Artagnan screamed and twisted on the chains; his manacled arms crossed as he twisted in the air. He lifted his feet to suddenly kick out at Jacques, with both feet landing hard on his tormentor’s stomach, knocking him backwards to the floor.

Henri was enraged and grabbed the whip from Jacques’s hand to begin pummeling lashes on the Gascon’s back, or wherever the whip happened to land, with relentless fury. Again and again, the whip cracked and lashed against bare skin as the Gascon twisted and turned to escape the barrage of unforgiving leather.

D’Artagnan’s screams and howls of pain were deafening in the confined stone room, but Henri continued his ruthless torture.

“Stop it now!” Porthos’ yell fell on deaf ears as the tormentor unleashed hell on d’Artagnan. At last, the large Musketeer couldn’t watch the sadistic punishment any longer. He hung by his arms and then kicked out a powerful burst with both feet that sent Henri flying into the stone wall like a rag doll, knocking him out cold. 

Jacques ran to retrieve the whip but as he neared the Musketeers, Porthos once again kicked out his powerful legs, knocking the man down and sending the whip scattering from his hand across the floor.

Gaston reacted by punching Porthos in the ribs, knocking the air from his chest and leaving him gasping and choking. Again, he punched the large man in the face, splitting the Musketeer’s lip open.

Porthos spit a mouthful of bloody saliva into Gaston’s face, making the sadistic man step back with disgust and shock. The man soon regained his composure and with newfound anger, he pounded his balled-up fist into the large Musketeer’s ribs again and again. 

As though the fight and stubbornness had been knocked out of Porthos, the large man hung with all his weight supported on his arms. The Musketeer was left reeling from the pain exploding through his body as he tried to catch his breath.

D’Artagnan screamed for Gaston to stop his vicious assault on Porthos but was ignored as he slammed his fist again into the large man’s side. The young Musketeer reared up with his legs and gave a mighty kick, sending the sadistic man sliding across the floor, stopping only when he bumped into the cell door.

Jacques sent another vicious lashing of the whip on d’Artagnan’s back which caused the young man to writhe and twist on the chains, screaming in agony. One more _crack_ made the young man surge forward as far as the chains would allow before his entire body went limp and his head lolled forward with his chin resting on his chest. 

Jean-Pierre grabbed a handful of hair and laughed. "Aw look, the Musketeer has passed out. Too bad, we were having such fun with him.”

“That’s alright, we still have one more Musketeer we can play with,” Gaston snarled. “Now it’s your turn, big man. Let’s see how long you will last,” he laughed mercilessly.

“Where is the letter?” Jacques asked, giving Porthos one last chance to divulge the whereabouts of the secret letter.

“Go to hell,” Porthos spat, steeling himself for the onslaught of leather.

“Let me do this.” Gaston growled as he stood from the floor and snatched the whip from Jacques. _Crack!_ the whip made its stinging mark on the back of the large man, causing him to gasp in pain as he twisted and turned in attempt to get away from the man holding the whip. 

“Where is the letter?” Gaston hissed as he flicked his wrist with the whip, sending it snapping across Porthos’ back.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Porthos growled through gritted teeth. _Crack!_ The whip rang out again and again as Gaston rather enjoyed watching the large Musketeer writhe in pain and cry out in anguish.

The onslaught of the whip was unabating and incessant, yet Porthos never spoke but to curse at the sadistic men entertained by their torment. 

Finally, one crack of the whip too many sent Porthos to the realm of blessed unconsciousness; his body hung limply as blood ran down his torn and ragged back.

“Let’s get them off these hanging manacles and put them on the wall restraints so they can’t kick us anymore,” Jean-Pierre suggested.

The men first released d’Artagnan’s wrists allowing his unrestrained body to fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. They next went to Porthos, releasing his wrists and watching callously as his large frame fell to the floor, landing with a sickening thud.

They dragged the Musketeers to the side of the room, sitting them up just enough to get their wrists into the manacles attached to the stone wall with large iron rings. The young Gascon tipped to the side as his limp body fell over only to be stopped by his restrained arms.

The large Musketeer fell forward, his chin resting against his chest, as his arms were pulled behind him and attached to the manacles.

“Let’s leave them until they wake up,” Gaston laughed. “They aren’t any fun when they’re passed out. We have plenty more in store for them and I want them awake to enjoy every minute of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the graphic nature of this chapter. Believe me, if you were cringing while reading this, and you were gasping in horror at the lashes Porthos and d'Artagnan were receiving, I was also!
> 
> When I write, I try to make the reader visualize the scene, as though watching an episode, with the story playing out before your eyes. I think you can pretty well visualize the torment these boys went through! Unfortunately, the goons are not done with the boys yet… I'm Sorry, Porthos and d'Artagnan!
> 
> I will not be available to update on Saturdays/Sundays… **so I'll see you all again on Monday.** Thanks for reading!


	6. Water, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The large man writhed in sheer panic, terrorized by the inability to breathe; but the water continued to flow relentlessly as Porthos was allowed only seconds to recover and catch his breath.

**Porthos:**

The Musketeers awoke to find their backs and chests burning as though their skin was on fire. As the sweat rolled in droplets down their skin, the pain stinging their bare skin was agonizing and neither man could stop the moans from escaping their lips.

The wounds created by the unrelenting whip were still oozing blood in some places. On the smaller cuts, the skin was beginning to scab and crust over with dried blood. Extreme movement only caused the skin to stretch and reopen freshly closed wounds, putting the Musketeers through sheer agony.

Porthos was the first to notice that they were no longer hanging but were now sitting on the cold stone floor with their arms shackled just above their heads. For this, at least, he felt very grateful. He decided to test the strength of the new restraints, but found the manacles too small and too tight to even hope for escape.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said weakly. “I won’t tell these arses anything, but I don’t think I’m going to make it out of here alive.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos growled. “Don’t you dare go there, d’Artagnan! Don’t even talk like ‘at—you can’t let ‘em win.”

“I’m not going to let them win, Porthos,” his shaky voice replied. “But I am losing the strength to hang on.” D’Artagnan’s breath hitched as a wave of pain coursed through his mangled back. The Gascon arched his back as if trying to escape his own skin; his chest heaved as he panted heavily. “God, it hurts,” pained breath hissed through clenched teeth. 

“Breathe, d’Artagnan,” Porthos ordered. “Breathe through the pain. . .”

They were interrupted as the cell door opened; both men groaned aloud, each dreading the unknown horrors that lay in store.

“Ah, you are both awake; that is very good,” Henri said. “I have something quite special in store for both of you and I can’t wait to get started. Let us not waste any further time talking but get started, shall we? 

Neither man made a sound, but their silent exchange of worried glances spoke volumes.

“I think this time we will start with the big man,” the evil tormentor laughed. He ordered Gaston to blindfold Porthos. “If you try anything stupid, I guarantee that you will regret it, Musketeer.”

Porthos nodded in resignation to the tormentors.

“Unshackle him and bind his hands,” Henri ordered Gaston and Jacques. 

Gaston blindfolded the Musketeer then proceeded to unshackle Porthos’ wrists; Jacques bound the large hands together behind his back to prevent escape. The large man cried out as his arms rubbed against the torn flesh of his back and the ropes burned against his ragged skin.

Porthos had no strength left to stand on his own; it took both men lifting Porthos under the arms to get him to his feet. Once on his feet, the Musketeer could barely muster the strength to remain standing as blood roared in his ears and his vision greyed.

“No, please!” d’Artagnan screamed. “Please don’t hurt him. . . take me instead!” 

“Shut up, dammit!” Porthos hissed. “I can handle ‘is.” The large Musketeer steadied himself and squared his shoulders, bravely nodding that he was ready.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Henri mocked. “Don’t worry, young Musketeer, you will have your turn with this special treat as well. Count on it,” he deadpanned.

The men led Porthos out of the cell, leaving d’Artagnan screaming for his friend. The Gascon wildly pulled on his chains in attempt to escape the nightmarish hell they found themselves in but to no avail.

Porthos was led to a room across the narrow hall where Henri untied the Musketeer’s hands then directed him to lie on his back on an inclined table with his feet up higher than his head. Porthos blindly felt with his hands the table in front of him and his breath caught in his throat, suddenly afraid of what lay in store.

Porthos stood frozen-- though still blindfolded-- afraid to lie on the wooden table with his back so badly damaged. A fist pounded into his ribs and dropped him to his knees, igniting a fire of burning pain that spread through his midsection.

“Lie on your back on the table—feet up here.” Henri tapped the top of the table as Gaston pulled Porthos to his feet then guided the Musketeer’s hand along the table to demonstrate.

Porthos obeyed then lay down on the table with Henri’s assistance. Immediately the Musketeer raised his back off the wood as the touch caused excruciating pain to explode over his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing to control the pain, but the feeling of being inclined was making him dizzy and making the pain worse. 

Gaston and Jacques proceeded to bind the Musketeer’s hands on rings bolted to the bottom of the table, near Porthos’ head. 

Next, the men restrained Porthos' feet to an iron bar spanning the length of the top of the table. They followed by restraining the large man with a thick leather strap belted across his midsection to completely prevent movement.

Porthos’ chest heaved with panic as he was unable to see why he was being restrained in such a manner. “What are you doing?” The Musketeer twisted against the restraints. “Let me go, dammit!”

“We will let you—and your friend—go if you tell us where the letter is,” Henri grinned at the obvious panic rising in his prisoner. _Perhaps this is the torture method that will finally break this big and tough Musketeer,_ the tormentor thought.

“I don’t know what you are talkin’ ‘bout.” Porthos clenched his jaw together in determination to stay strong, no matter what came his way.

“Have it your way then.” Henri placed a cloth over Porthos’ face, but the Musketeer instantly shook his head rapidly side-to-side to free his face from the cloth until it fell off. The tormentor ordered Jacques to hold the Musketeer's head still while he replaced the cloth over his mouth and nose.

Gaston took a bucket of water then poured a large amount over the cloth, causing Porthos to sputter and gag. The Musketeer choked on the water while desperately trying to spit it out so he could breathe, but the cloth prevented it.

Porthos writhed and twisted against the restraints, but they were unforgiving in their hold on the panicked prisoner. The cold water splashed across his chest and ran over his lacerated back, adding to the symphony of pain and terror.

Jacques increased his pressure on the Musketeer’s head to hold it still as Gaston poured more water onto the cloth; he watched with sadistic pleasure as Porthos choked.

Henri removed the cloth for a brief moment, allowing Porthos to spit up the water and take in a few sputtering breaths. The cloth was then replaced as Gaston once again poured more water over the Musketeer’s face.

“S-s-s-st’p!” Porthos gurgled as his lungs screamed for air, but water was all the Musketeer could inhale as the sadistic torture continued. 

More water was poured onto the cloth as Porthos writhed under the restraints in sheer panic; he was unable to breathe and began to choke violently. Once again, the cloth was pulled away to allow the Musketeer to finish gagging and choking and to catch his breath only to have the cloth replaced as more water was dumped into his mouth.

This violent process continued for several agonizing minutes. Porthos’ panic increased as the torture continued; increasingly, he was less able to catch his breath as more water than oxygen began filling his weary lungs. 

Porthos began to lurch, heaving with signs that he was about to vomit. Henri quickly removed the cloth and the midsection strap so they could turn Porthos onto his side, allowing the watery vomitus to run harmlessly down the table. 

The large Musketeer was allowed a moment to catch his breath while Henri taunted him. "This torment will end if you would simply tell me where the letter is. We have plenty of buckets of water down here, so we are quite prepared if you wish to remain stubborn. I hardly think protecting the king’s secrets is worth this torture, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Go t-to h-hell,” Porthos growled as he lay on his side gasping for breath.

“If that is your wish, then perhaps I will send you there before me,” Henri sneered. “However, I have no plans to leave this world anytime soon; you may be waiting a while for me to join you. Alright, Gaston, begin again.”

Porthos began to cry out in protest but the wet cloth muffled his voice. Soon, the Musketeer’s voice gargled hopelessly as his mouth and throat filled up again with water. The large man writhed in sheer panic, terrorized by the inability to breathe, yet the water flowed relentlessly as Porthos was allowed only seconds to recover and catch his breath.

It didn’t take long for the large man’s consciousness to begin waning. His ears rang as blood thundered and beat against his eardrums—even his own screams sounded distant. Porthos felt as though he was floating; he imagined that he was bobbing on waves while lying on the wooden deck of a ship sailing across the water.

As more water was poured over his mouth, Porthos tried in vain to gulp oxygen into his starved lungs but only more liquid was inhaled. Finally, the large Musketeer felt at peace as he drifted into the open arms of darkness, welcoming its bliss.

Henri felt the Musketeer go lax and immediately pulled the soaking wet cloth away. He rolled Porthos sideways while pounding on his back to dislodge the water which came pouring up from his lungs and out of the open mouth. 

Porthos sputtered for air as his unconscious body took in involuntary but desperate breaths, filling his oxygen deprived lungs. 

“This is the first prisoner that didn’t break, Henri.” Gaston commented with amazement. “I have to admit, these Musketeers are admirable—they’re tough—and there’s no denying it.”

“No, there is no denying it at all,” Henri agreed. “Take this Musketeer back to his cell. It’s time to work on breaking the younger man now. Everyone has a breaking point and I’m going to test the endurance of this Gascon like he’s never been tested before. Someone is going to tell me what I want to know or they won’t leave this château alive.”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waterboarding in various forms has been practiced for centuries. It was used by the Spanish during the Inquisition in the16th century; and by Dutch traders against the British in the 17th century, during the Thirty Years’ War 1618- 1648.
> 
> Waterboarding is when water is poured through a cloth into the nose and mouth of a victim lying on his back on an inclined table, with his feet above his head. As the victim’s sinus cavities and mouth fill with water, his gag reflex causes him to expel air from his lungs, leaving him unable to exhale and inhale without aspirating water. Although water usually enters the lungs, it does not immediately fill them, owing to their elevated position with respect to the head and neck. In this way the victim appears to drown without suffering asphyxiation. The torture is eventually halted and the victim put in an upright position to allow him to cough and vomit water; or to revive him if he has become unconscious, after which the torture may be resumed. Waterboarding produces extreme physical suffering and an uncontrollable feeling of panic and terror, usually within seconds.


	7. Water, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More and more water flowed into the Gascon’s body even as the gurgling and sputtering in desperation to breathe started to wane. The blood rushing in d’Artagnan’s ears was deafening as he stopped fighting, he stopped gurgling. . . he stopped caring.

**d'Artagnan:**

*****

Porthos was dragged back to his cell and chained to the wall, his wrists secured tightly in the manacles. The blindfold was removed roughly, causing the limp head of the unconscious Musketeer to fall against the stone wall with a thud.

Henri and Gaston laughed as they tapped the unconscious man’s cheeks, forcing Porthos’ head to roll forward until his chin rested against his chest. 

Water dripped from Porthos’ hair and beard then ran down his wet skin. A slow stream of water dripped from the corner of the Musketeer’s mouth, dribbling down his chin and onto his chest. His breath came in gurgling rasps as small amounts of water still remained in his lungs. 

“What the hell did you do to him?” D’Artagnan screamed at seeing his friend dripping wet and unconscious. “Porthos, oh God, please wake up!” 

“Shut up, _boy!_ Gaston swung the back of his hand, slapping d’Artagnan on the face. “We ask the questions _and_ give the orders around here.”

Involuntary tears welled in the Gascon’s eyes as his face stung from the slap. He could taste more blood in his mouth from yet another split in his lip. _If I make it through this ordeal alive, I wonder if Constance will still want to kiss my scarred lips?_

“It’s your turn for the special treat, boy,” Gaston gloated with delight. “Let’s see if you can handle it as well as your friend did, eh?” The man laughed with a sadistic chuckle.

D’Artagnan looked at his still-unconscious friend and smiled. _So, they didn’t get anything from you yet again; was there ever any doubt? God, help me to be as strong as Porthos in whatever lies ahead—please, give me the strength to endure this._

“You won’t be smiling when we get done with you, Musketeer!” Gaston blindfolded the young man as Jacques unshackled his wrists then bound his hands behind his back with rope. Severe pressure was put on his wounded shoulder without a care, causing d’Artagnan to hiss with pain and gasp at the torment it caused.

D’Artagnan was yanked to his feet and, once again, he cried out with pain at the deliberate harsh handling of his wounded body. His chest heaved with quick, panicked breaths as he was blindly led away to an unknown nightmare that would test his will and endurance. 

The Gascon was led into the room and he cringed as his feet splashed in cold water on the stone floor. His mind went back to Porthos being dragged into the cell still dripping wet with water and his heart skipped a beat. _Oh God, what are they going to do, are they going to drown me too?_

D’Artagnan began to fight against the arms pulling him into the room. "No, stop! I don’t know anything, dammit!”

The Musketeer half-dragged, half-pushed with his feet against the slippery floor, but had not the strength to prevent being coerced into the room. The tormentors threw the Gascon’s body across the surface of a flat table where they forcibly pushed him down then held him as they tied his hands. “Now, lie down on your back and don’t even think of doing something stupid,” Henri ordered.

D’Artagnan turned over then sat on the table but hesitated, knowing the pain it would cause his back. “I said to lie down,” Henri slapped the Gascon on his wounded shoulder.

The young Gascon screamed, then doubled over in agony from the burning in his shoulder which pulsated down his arm like fire. Hot tears welled in his eyes and soaked his blindfold; he was glad his captors could not see his tears. D’Artagnan relented and allowed himself to be pushed backward on the table; he gave no resistance as his arms were tied above his head to the iron rings bolted to the top of the table. 

Panic grew inside the Gascon’s mind as they took each of his feet then restrained them to the rings at the foot of the table. “What are you doing?” D’Artagnan’s voice shook with fear. “You’re wasting your time; I don’t know anything!”

Gaston inserted an iron prong into d’Artagnan’s mouth to widen it and keep it open. The Musketeer screamed and thrashed his head from left to right, successfully dislodging the metal from his mouth. 

Gaston took d’Artagnan’s head and slammed it to the table with enough force to stun the Musketeer, causing him to cease resisting. The ruthless man put heavy pressure on the Gascon’s head so he could no longer move as Jacque shoved the awkward iron prong into the Musketeer's mouth to keep it open.

“Jean-Pierre, come here and hold his nose while I pour the water,” Henri directed.

“W't a m'nt. . . 'o. . . d' . . .” D’Artagnan tried to fight off the hands holding him down but didn’t have the strength. His chest tightened with alarm from sheer panic, making it nearly impossible to breathe, when Jean-Pierre came over to hold his nose. Sweat popped out in beads on his skin as terror swept through his mind. He wished that he could at least see what torment the goons had in store for him—as if, somehow, seeing would make facing the torment easier—but all he saw was black from the blindfold.

“Last chance, where is the letter?” Henri demanded, as he held a pitcher of water above d’Artagnan’s head.

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” d’Artagnan shouted. The Gascon already feared what torture the men had planned, but nothing prepared him for the terror that followed as the water began flowing into his open mouth.

With the iron prong holding his mouth open, and Jean-Pierre plugging his nose, the Gascon had no choice but to swallow the torrent of water being poured into his mouth.

Gurgling screams was the only sound coming from d’Artagnan’s mouth as he could form no words otherwise. As the water continued to pour, the Gascon spurted and choked on the water sending some of it spraying into the face of Henri. 

Henri refilled his pitcher of water, giving a few seconds of rest to d’Artagnan, who was greedily gasping for air through his open mouth, while choking on small amounts of water still in his throat.

Henri returned with a full pitcher of water and began slowly pouring it into the Gascon’s mouth, renewing the Musketeer’s panic as he tried desperately to breathe but could only swallow water instead. A low throaty scream and panicked gurgling was all he could muster, despite how he wished for them to stop.

D’Artagnan fought against the restraints holding him down but it was no use—he was trapped. _This is it, I’m going to die in this room. I always thought I might die in the line of duty as a King’s Musketeer, but I never thought I would die like this._

Henri stopped with the water as he saw the Gascon’s body beginning to go lax. He didn’t want to kill the Musketeer since it was impossible to extract information from a dead man. “Give him a few minutes to catch his breath,” he said as he refilled the pitcher.

D’Artagnan felt as though he were drowning in a deluge of waves; his own body pulled him downward as the weight of the water filled his lungs and sloshed in his stomach. “Pl-please. . . n-no. . . m-more, please,” he begged.

“I will stop if you tell me where the letter is,” Henri stated matter-of-factly.

“I d-don’t. . . don’t know wh-where the l-letter is, I sw- swear to you. . . I don’t know,” d’Artagnan stammered.

“You were sent on a mission to deliver a letter from the king to Marie de Hautefort, yet you swear you have no idea where this letter is located. This was an important mission, was it not? But you know nothing,” Henri scoffed. “Are you always this _stupid,_ Musketeer?”

Before d’Artagnan could respond, the iron prong was replaced in his mouth and the cascade of water began anew. With his nose plugged, he had no choice but to swallow the liquid as it poured down his throat, once again drowning him on the inside. The strangled gasps of breath were not enough to fill his already tormented and burning lungs. It didn’t take long for the Musketeer to feel himself losing his grip on consciousness once again.

Henri stopped and ordered Jean-Pierre to let go of the Gascon’s nose. D’Artagnan tried to gulp a mouthful of air but could only manage choking, as too much water still remained in his trachea. He felt like his body might erupt from the overload of water in his belly; he crunched his face into a painful grimace at feeling so bloated. The Gascon curled his fingers into a tight fist, his fingernails digging deep into his palms as he concentrated on not passing out.

His stomach felt taut, as though his abdomen might burst apart with an explosion of water and entrails. He soon felt the bile rising as his body was ridding itself of the excess load of water. “Ssssick. . .” d’Artagnan croaked.

Henri had just enough time to turn the Musketeer as the water came gushing from d’Artagnan’s body in a rush. The water splashed and sprayed on the table and onto the floor; everywhere in close proximity was drenched with the sudden eruption of liquid.

The Musketeer gagged and retched until all the water had been freed from his distended stomach. “God pl-please. . . n-no m-more,” d’Artagnan begged. 

“I wish it were that easy,” Henri made a tisk-tisk noise, in a mocking manner. “But, now you have expelled all of the water we worked _so hard_ to pour into you, so we must begin again.”

“No, p-please. . .” d’Artagnan cried, groaning as they began drowning him anew with a flood of water pouring into his open mouth with no reservations. Jean-Pierre continued plugging the Gascon’s nose, making it almost impossible to breathe.

The sadistic process of d’Artagnan swallowing pitchers of water being poured into his open mouth continued for a second round, as did the choking, sputtering and gasping for air. The Gascon tried to close his mouth and turn away his head but it was no use, the restraints and the iron prong held him firm.

Water leaked from his nose and spluttered from his mouth as the relentless pouring filled his body to overflowing. D’Artagnan knew that he couldn’t continue like this much longer as he began to swoon, feeling dizzy from oxygen deprivation.

“Jean-Pierre, let go of his nose again,” Henri said as he paused with the pouring.

“Henri, this isn’t working,” Gaston complained. “It didn’t work with the big Musketeer and it’s not working with this one either. Maybe we should just kill them both and report to our employer that we were not successful.”

“Are you serious, Gaston?” Henri was incredulous. “Do you know what he’ll do to us if we report ourselves as failures? **_Do you?”_** The lead tormentor screamed, his face turning beet red with rage. “He will kill us all, you fool!”

“S-sounds like your. . . sit-situation is as b-bad. . . as ours,” d’Artagnan snorted.

“Jean-Pierre, plug his nose; we begin again,” Henri growled as he poured the entire pitcher into d’Atagnan’s mouth. “You tell us what we want to know or you keep your damned mouth shut.”

D’Artagnan had to stifle a laugh. _First, they want me to talk and now they want me to shut up; it sounds like they are the ones who are beginning to crack under pressure. If I can hold on just a little while longer. . .”_ d’Artagnan thought to himself.

More and more water flowed into the Gascon’s body, even as the gurgling and sputtering in desperation to breathe started to wane. The blood rushing in d’Artagnan’s ears was deafening until he stopped fighting; he stopped gurgling. . . he stopped caring. 

Finally, he stopped breathing.

Henri threw the pitcher down then punched d’Artagnan hard in the stomach; he quickly rolled the Musketeer onto his side as the water came gushing out again. He pounded on the young man’s back to startle the air back into his starved lungs. 

“Don’t you _dare_ die on us,” screamed Henri as he pounded on the Gascon’s back again and again. “We are not done with you yet! Breathe, you damn stubborn bastard!” 

Henri turned the Musketeer onto his back and pounded his chest with a heavy fist, then turned him onto his side once again to allow the remaining water to drain out. Finally, he heard the soft bubbling sound of suffocated breaths gurgling in the Gascon’s throat.

The tormentor continued to pound on d’Artagnan’s back as the young man tried to catch his breath.

D’Artagnan banged his head against the wooden table in panic as he struggled to draw breaths but couldn’t without choking. _God, why didn’t they just let me go? I can’t do this anymore._

Henri took hold of d’Artagnan’s head to hold it still while Jean-Pierre pounded on the Musketeer’s back to help bring up further water drowning the lungs and preventing oxygen from being inhaled.

At last Henri released his hold on d’Artagnan; the Gascon let his head hang over the edge of the table as occasional retches of water still plagued him. His chest burned from the lack of oxygen slowly suffocating the life from his body. He wished his tormentors had just let him die.

The horribly suffocating water torture was the single most terrifying ordeal the young Musketeer had ever endured. His chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths as the terror of the experience plagued his mind and forced him to continue struggling to even breathe. 

The young Gascon weakly shook his head, resigning himself to chance or to whatever fate befell him. Presently, d’Artagnan would welcome death rather than continue with this torture; the Musketeer gladly—even willingly—gave up and let himself fall into a sea of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sort of water torture was used extensively and legally by the courts in France from the Middle Ages to the 17th and 18th centuries. It was known as being “put to the question" with usually about eight pints of water being forced into the victim’s stomach. Before pouring the water, torturers often inserted an iron prong into a victim's mouth to keep it open. After enough water had been poured in, if the victim had not vomited it up on his own, the tormentor would punch the victim to force him to vomit. Usually, the procedure would begin again—sometimes lasting three or four rounds.
> 
> The French poet and criminal François Villon was subjected to this torture in 1461. The true case of the Marquise of Brinvilliers was reported in fiction by Arthur Conan Doyle in _The Leather Funnel,_ and by Alexandre Dumas in _The Marquise de Brinvilliers._


	8. Promises, Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and d’Artagnan were out there somewhere nearby, Athos somehow knew it deep down inside. He also knew they were in danger, quite possibly fighting for their lives, and there was no time to waste if they were to be found alive.

The chow hall was filled with hungry Musketeers yet there was a noticeable one missing. Captain Tréville made a mental note to check on his lieutenant later, after the morning muster. However, the captain soon became distracted by duties requiring immediate attention and his concern for Athos was momentarily forgotten.

It was later when the captain passed through the courtyard and by the empty table favored by his best Musketeers that he remembered he hadn’t seen Athos all morning. In addition, his concern for the missing set of men, sent on a very dangerous and covert mission, grew with each passing hour.

Tréville turned on his heel then headed in the direction of Athos’ room. He knocked lightly on the door but heard no movement or call to enter from within. The captain opened the door to find the room empty and clean with the bed neatly made. The captain stopped in his tracks when he noticed the Musketeer’s sword was missing, as were his other weapons; also missing were his doublet, hat, and weapons belt.

“Athos, what have you done?” Captain Tréville voiced aloud to the empty room. “Don’t tell me you went after your missing brothers alone and in your condition,” he frowned. “Well, I better tell the search party to add Athos to the list of missing Musketeers. Dammit, Aramis, I could really use your help right now.” Tréville shook his head as he left Athos’ room, shutting the door behind him.

*****

Aramis and Athos rode without incident for a few hours before the medic began to visibly wane by swaying in the saddle, barely able to keep his seat. 

Athos blew out a breath of relief as he saw the city of Orléans just ahead. “We will stop in Orléans so a physician can have a look at you and so you can get something to eat,” the lieutenant informed the marksman as he watched him with worry etched on his face.

“I’m fine.” Aramis objected, straightening in his saddle at the suggestion. “We need to get to Blois; we don’t have time for a picnic.” The words came out harsher than he meant, but the pain was almost unbearable and it was making him sullen and cranky. “Besides, haven’t you been riding since Paris? When was the last time _you_ had anything to eat?”

Athos took a deep breath, ready to protest the protest when his breath hitched suddenly in his chest. The Musketeer leaned over in his saddle and coughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. He pounded his fist on his knee in aggravation as he tried to catch his breath, but the hacking coughs continued to steal his breath away.

Aramis rode next to Athos then reached over to pound him on the back. "Breathe, Athos,” he soothed. 

“Look at me, Athos,” the medic ordered. “You need to breathe with me, just like we did before.” Aramis assisted Athos, coaching him by exhaling slow breaths through his mouth, followed by inhaling shallow breaths through his nose. “That’s it, keep breathing with me.”

With Aramis’ help, Athos was able to control his breathing and stop coughing; however, the ordeal left him weak and lethargic. “Where do you want us to go?” Aramis asked as they were about to enter the city. 

“I don’t know. . .” Athos responded sluggishly. Since his coughing fit, Athos’ focus wavered with lack of purpose and direction.

“Cécile lives very close by.” Aramis made the decision for Athos. “She will know a good physician or, at the very least, she is an excellent nurse and can help get us fixed up for the rest of our journey to Blois.” 

Athos didn’t speak but merely nodded his agreement, worrying the medic. Aramis temporarily forgot his own afflictions as his focus now squared on his sick friend; he watched as droplets of sweat ran down the lieutenant's flushed face.

The Musketeers arrived at Cécile’s house and before they could even dismount the nurse came rushing out, having seen Aramis through her window.

“Aramis, what are you doing here?” The nurse gasped in horror when the medic turned toward her and she saw his bruised and bleeding face. “Mother Mary, what happened to you?” Cécile also noticed the flushed and sweaty face of Athos, realizing instantly that he traveled here far too soon after his recovery from catarrh. 

“Both of you gentlemen are in no condition to be riding anywhere,” Cécile scolded. 

“I know that, but it is irrelevant at the moment, Cécile,” Aramis countered. “Do you know a physician who can help us?”

“Actually, I know a physician who would _normally_ help but he is quite busy with a docking accident that happened this morning,” Cécile shook her head.

“Damn,” Aramis cursed under his breath.

“Oh, your friends, Doctors Berteau and Molyneux, will be arriving in town tomorrow from Chamarande for a clinic inspection,” Cécile added. “But that doesn’t help you boys right now, does it?” her voice lowered with disappointment.

“No, it doesn’t, Mademoiselle,” Athos replied, swaying in the saddle.

“I have plenty of supplies inside,” the nurse suggested. “Why don’t you let me take a look at you; I'll see if I can patch both of you boys up.”

Athos slid from his horse to the aid of Aramis, who found it nearly impossible to dismount his horse on his own—unless he fell off.

Cécile ran over to help Athos as he gently pulled the medic from his horse. Aramis let out a cry as pain shot through his ribs, making his breath catch. Excruciating pain coursed through his chest from his ribs and bruised muscles, causing the medic to give in to the blessed darkness.

Athos caught the falling Aramis in his arms and carried him into the house, following behind Cécile’s lead. “Lay him here on the bed,” she instructed.

“I’ll go get the medical bag and towels,” she said as she turned to grab a bucket. “If you wouldn’t mind drawing some water, we can get started tending his wounds.”

Once all the necessary supplies had been gathered, Athos and Cécile traded worried glances before beginning their ministrations on Aramis. 

First they removed the medic's weapons belt, followed by his sash and doublet, and then his shirt. Both caregivers could not hold back the gasps of shock at seeing Aramis’ bloodied and bruised torso; appalled at the damage, they shook their heads in dismay. 

Aramis’ entire right side was covered in blood—obviously injured the worst—so the nurse began her examination there. “Looks like a musket ball passed through his side,” she determined. “See, it entered from the back,” she pointed, “and here is the exit wound just under his rib, based on the ragged nature of the skin.” 

Athos helped her position Aramis on his side to examine the entry wound on his back. “We’ll have to clean this wound out and make sure no debris from his shirt entered with the ball; I have a poultice we can put on it before wrapping the wound with bandages.”

Athos nodded as he turned away, covering his mouth as he coughed again. He took in a few shallow breaths then cleared his throat before turning back to Aramis and the nurse.

Gently rolling Aramis back over, the nurse examined his ribs by carefully feeling for broken bones. “I think we may have a broken rib, and possibly another cracked one. . . no, two cracked ribs.”

“Is that a boot print?” Athos asked as he pointed to a large bruise forming over the cracked ribs; the mark certainly matched the shape of man’s boot, as though the imprint had made its mark in mud. 

“Dammit to. . .” Athos growled. He was soon interrupted as an onslaught of uncontrollable coughing began, doubling the Musketeer over at the waist. The grueling coughing fit left him wheezing with his face turning a deep shade of red.

“Athos, you should really be under a physician’s care.” Cécile shook her head, her eyes full of concern. “Does Doctor Molyneux know that you took this ride here today?”

Athos shook his head, still too breathless and wheezy to speak.

“I didn’t think so,” Cécile deadpanned. “I know the doctor would never agree to you traveling anywhere in this condition. Where were you and Aramis going anyway, if it’s alright for me to ask?”

Athos cleared his throat and took a breath through his nose, letting the air out slowly through his mouth; he repeated the exercise, before answering the nurse. “Porthos and d’Artagnan are missing; we both feel that something bad has happened to them and we mean to find them.”

“Oh God,” Cécile gasped. “Aramis had a nightmare about Porthos and d’Artagnan, which is why he left early.” The nurse groaned with dread, “he said something about a firing squad!”

“We don’t know anything yet, just what he saw in his dream and my feeling that something was wrong.” Athos scrubbed a hand over his face. “We have got to get going; time is a luxury we cannot afford to waste.”

“Athos, I understand the dire situation you boys are in. I understand the urgency you feel in finding your brothers,” Cecile paused, “but he’s in no condition to go anywhere, let alone fight anyone. . . if it comes to that.”

“Then I will set out on my own immediately.” Athos turned to retrieve his hat; the lieutenant stopped mid-stride when Aramis awakened, grunting at hearing Athos’ declaration to leave.

“You are not going anywhere; not without me, anyway,” Aramis countered. “Especially with that cough of yours,” he motioned his chin toward Athos’ chest.

Athos opened his mouth to protest but once again was cut off with a fit of coughing.

“Aramis, you have a broken rib and possibly two cracked ribs. You also have this gunshot wound,” the nurse paused, “and all these bruises.” Cécile shook her head as she glanced over the many bruises covering his skin.

“Just fix me up the best you can so we can go.” Aramis closed his eyes. “And if you have something to give Athos to help with his cough, that would be even better.”

“I don’t like this—not one bit—I’ll have you know!” Cécile scolded as she began washing the blood from Aramis’ side.

The medic lay with his eyes closed quietly, as though sleeping, except for an occasional wince or gasp hissing through his teeth while being tended. “Sorry,” the nurse whispered an apology each time she caused pain.

“Athos, hand me that bottle there,” Cécile motioned to a large bottle of liquid. The nurse poured the liquid over the cleaned gunshot wound in the front and, with Athos’ help in turning the patient, also on his back. She soaked a cloth with the liquid and proceeded to wash over the many bruises scattered across his torso and face.

“What is that?” Athos asked, pointing to the bottle.

“This is witch hazel,” she answered. “It works wonders as an astringent and an anti-inflammatory agent; meaning, it will kill bacteria in the wound and help reduce swelling and bruising.”

Athos sipped slowly on hot chamomile tea as the nurse continued her ministrations on Aramis, talking nonstop as she worked. 

“I will also put a poultice of marshmallow root and juniper leaves on this gunshot wound,” she informed as she applied the poultice. “The root pulls away toxins from the wound and the leaves will help keep it to heal faster.” 

“There, I think that should do it,” the nurse said. Cécile smiled, satisfied that the medic's wounds were now cleaned, treated and his ribs tightly bandaged. She then proceeded to instruct Athos to the particulars of the medicines and supplies she would be sending with them on their trip. 

“I will send you boys with a bag filled with medicine for Aramis and for your friends, if needed,” she paused. “I will also include bandages and extra poultice for Aramis’ gunshot wound.”

Athos nodded quietly as he coughed a few times; he took another sip of tea to coat his throat, clearing it impatiently. "Thank you,” he rasped.

“I’ll also include some more chamomile and licorice for your cough.”

Aramis huffed in amusement and shook his head at the stubbornness of his friend. 

“Thank you, Cécile, for all that you have done for us.” Athos smiled as he kissed her hand softly.

“You are welcome. Of course, it was my pleasure.” Cécile kissed his cheek. “Please look after Aramis for me,” she whispered in his ear.

“You know I will, Cécile,” Athos replied with a smile, still holding the nurse’s hand.

“Yes, I do know actually,” she smiled back. “Promise me that you will take care of yourself too; it is quite possible that bronchitis is developing in your lungs, which is why your cough is worsening. If you don’t take proper care of that cough, it could lead to pneumonia.”

“Alright,” Athos nodded. “I promise,” he answered unconvincingly.

“Yeah, and I promise to make sure that he keeps his promise to take care of that cough,” Aramis added with a wry smile. 

Athos shook his head, letting that last comment go, as he helped Aramis stand to his feet. The medic swayed, but the lieutenant was a steady support until the dizziness passed and he could stand on his own without help.

Athos went outside to secure the bag of medicine on his saddle while Aramis and Cécile talked privately inside.

“Thank you for taking care of us.” Aramis kissed Cécile’s lips gently. “Try not to worry about me,” he whispered between kisses. “I’m fine now, thanks to you.”

“How can I _not_ worry when you are riding off into a possible fight for your missing brothers in your condition?” 

“I promise to take it easy and to not exert myself more than necessary,” he smiled as he kissed her forehead softly. “I promise to return to you—safe and sound—you’ll see.” 

“You better stay safe, Aramis,” the nurse cupped his cheek. “I expect you to keep your promise and return to me.”

Aramis and Cécile kissed again, finally parting as he turned to leave. The nurse followed behind him, her eyes welling up with tears as she watched him slowly mount his horse. He stifled a groan at the throbbing pain in his ribs; though he tried to keep his face neutral, he was fooling no one.

The marksman took one last look behind him then waved as he turned his horse to follow Athos on the road west to Blois. He silently promised himself that he would do everything humanly possible to find his missing brothers, leaving no stone unturned and no building unchecked. No matter how long it took, they would not stop searching. 

As if reading his friend’s mind, Athos nodded in agreement. “We will cover every inch of ground, if necessary, in our search for Porthos and d’Artagnan; we will not rest until we’ve found them.” 

Athos choked back the cough he felt rising in his chest; he breathed slowly through his nose to calm his aching lungs. Despite the discomfort in his chest and the possibility of his illness worsening, Athos vowed to help his friends; even at the cost of his own health—his own life—if necessary. 

Porthos and d’Artagnan were out there somewhere nearby and Athos somehow knew this deep down inside. The Musketeer also knew they were in danger, quite possibly fighting for their lives; there was no time to waste if they were to be found alive. 

Athos kicked his horse to go faster—determined to find his friends in time—and praying they weren’t already too late.

_I promise that I will search for you, my brothers. I will do everything in my power to find you and bring you home safe. No matter what it costs me. I promise, I will find you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tomorrow, hope is waning for Porthos and d’Artagnan…**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **** Special Note ****  
>  I put Cécile’s explanation of the witch hazel into the dialogue more for you, the reader, to learn the benefits of the herb Cécile was using without interrupting the story. They may not have used the terms “astringent” or “anti-inflammatory” in the 17th century, but we know what these medical terms mean, and it makes for easier understanding of the story to insert the modern terms.
> 
> Herbs used for healing in the story:
> 
> Marshmallow Root: marshmallow root is great for drawing out toxins and other bacteria found in wounds when used as a poultice. It shortens healing time by drawing out impurities.
> 
> Chamomile: chamomile is one of the most ancient medicinal herbs known to mankind. The herb has relaxing properties, as well as healing properties; and in some studies, it has proved to work better than corticosteroids. Chamomile tea bags can be used directly on wounds, covered with bandages, to help your wound heal faster. The tea is great for helping to rid a stubborn cough.
> 
> Witch Hazel: witch hazel is a wonderful astringent with anti-inflammatory properties that soothe and heal open wounds. WH can be applied directly to cuts and bruises to reduce swelling and speed recovery time. It can also help control bleeding.
> 
> Juniper leaves/berries: juniper is very useful in the treatment of inflamed joints and wounds. The berries are very rich in vitamins B and C, which helps speed recovery time. Juniper also contains anti-bacterial and antiseptic properties, which is great for skin conditions like psoriasis and eczema.
> 
> Licorice: Licorice root has been used for centuries to soothe and relieve coughing and various other ailments affecting the respiratory and digestive tracts. The sweet herb makes an excellent tea that relieves tickling and itching in the throat and upper chest that is often the trigger for coughing


	9. Giving Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The large Musketeer gasped and bit down on his lip to stifle the cries of pain, but kept his mouth shut to any other sounds. Blood slowly seeped from the penetrating wound but Porthos no longer cared what happened to him anyway. Perhaps this was the fatal blow he had been wishing for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now both boys are giving up hope-how much more can they possibly endure? Sorry for the continuation of the torture, but I promise you, the end is near... for someone!

Porthos watched as d’Artagnan was dragged into the cell and shackled to the wall. He shook his head with pity as water dripped from the young Gascon’s wet hair; the Musketeer’s waterlogged braies were dripping and forming a puddle, spreading slowly around where he sat.

“If I could have taken your place—though I would have had to go through that watery hell twice—I would have done it to spare you of that torment.” Porthos whispered softly to his unconscious friend.

Porthos leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, needing to rest his sore and exhausted body while waiting for his young friend to awaken. _I am sorry you have to suffer so much because of that letter. I’m glad I didn’t tell you where it’s hidden—the secret is too heavy a burden. I was right to spare you of it._

The large Musketeer was later awakened when d’Artagnan began to moan. “I don’t know if I’ll ever enjoy a cup of water again.”

“The worst was bein’ nearly upside down so the water went up my nose and into my ears.” Porthos tried shaking his head to release the water still sloshing in his ears.

“Upside down?” d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I wasn’t upside down; I was lying flat on my back as they poured entire pitchers of water down my throat. They put some kind of a metal prong into my mouth, while someone else plugged my nose so I couldn’t breathe. I had no choice but to swallow all that water they poured into me.”

“They did dif’rent water tortures on us then,” Porthos grumbled. “That’s not what happened to me.” 

“Porthos, I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” the Gascon whispered softly. “Do you think Captain Tréville has sent a search party for us?”

“I _know_ the cap’n’s got a search party out lookin’ for us—you can count on it!” Porthos assured. “But I wouldn’t put it past Athos leadin’ the way with his own one-man search and rescue team.”

“Athos shouldn’t be going anywhere,” d’Artagnan groaned as he shook his head. “He’s still too sick to travel.”

“If I know Athos, no way is he stayin’ in his room if he knows we’re missin’,” Porthos paused, “no matter how sick he is. With Aramis away, I’ll bet Athos snuck out when the cap’n couldn’t stop ‘im.”

“If only we could get something out that window, some sort of a signal so he—they—could find us in here. How is anyone going to find us down here? It’s going to take a blooming miracle,” d’Artagnan frowned.

“I don’t know, brother,” Porthos shook his head. “But if Athos and the cap’n are out there lookin’ for us, I know they’ll find a way to locate us—you can count on it.”

The Musketeers jumped and groaned with dread at the sound of the cell door unlocking and creaking open.

Henri and Gaston stepped into the cell with ropes in their hands. “Time for more questioning, Musketeers; how much questioning is up to you boys. Tell us where the letter is,” Henri shrugged, “and you can be home by nightfall.”

“You wouldn’t let us go, even if we did know where the letter is,” d’Artagnan spat angrily. “You’re not men of honor; you’re nothing but two-bit ruffians!”

Gaston reached out and slapped d’Artagnan across the face with the back of his hand, cutting his lip against his teeth again. The Gascon wiped the blood away with his fist, glaring at Gaston with pure hatred in his dark eyes.

“You’ll get nothin’ from us, you worthless pieces of filth!” Porthos growled. “You’re nothin’ but hired goons,” he spat. “Who hired ya, Rochefort?”

Henri punched Porthos in the face, snapping his head back into the stone with a sickening thud. Blood streamed from the Musketeer’s nose, dripping onto the dirty floor as his head hung limply to the side.

“Well, it looks like I’ll have to start with you.” Henri rubbed his hands over the rope he held as he stepped in d’Artagnan’s direction.

The Gascon’s heart fell in his chest as he realized more torture was in store for him. _How much more of this torture can I possibly endure? Is the king’s letter really worth this?_ D’Artagnan paused to reminded himself of Captain Tréville’s order to _not_ allow the letter to fall into the wrong hands. 

_What the hell are you saying, d’Artagnan? You are a King’s Musketeer! You will go to your grave before telling those pieces of garbage anything. Are you a man of courage, or are you going to let them break you?_

“Gaston, unshackle him and bind his hands in front,” he handed the man the rope. “I want to have fun with him for a while. But if you try anything stupid, I’ll slice his throat,” he pointed a dagger at Porthos’ neck.

D’Artagnan said nothing as he squared his shoulders and set his jaw, determined to face whatever lay in store with absolute courage. _If I don’t come through this ordeal alive, so be it. I’m not going give these goons the satisfaction of breaking me._

“I am a King’s Musketeer. . .” 

Gaston unshackled one manacle, allowing d’Artagnan’s arm to drop numbly to the floor.

“I am a soldier of France. . .” 

The second arm was freed, also dropping to the floor, numb from lack of circulation.

“I am Charles d’Artagnan from Lupiac of Gascony. . .” 

The Musketeer was pulled roughly to his feet with both hands now tied in front of him.

“I’ll make you proud of me, Papa.” D’Artagnan looked upward toward the window, smiling at the sliver of sunshine streaming in. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling onto his cheeks. “God give me strength. . .”

They led the Gascon away, slamming the cell door behind them.

*****

D’Artagnan was led to a large, open room with high ceilings. He gasped as he noticed two ends of a long rope hanging from a pulley attached to the ceiling. He swallowed the lump in his throat, afraid of what purpose the long rope held for him. 

“Ah, I see that you’ve noticed the rope,” Henri sneered. “We’re going to have fun with this one. I am surprised you have lasted this long, Musketeer. You have courage, I will give you credit there, but that may change before we’re done.”

“I don’t think so,” d’Artagnan countered.

“Tie him to the rope!”

Gaston and Jacques pushed d’Artagnan toward the rope. Henri took out his dagger and cut away the small rope binding the Musketeer’s hands so he could be tied to the longer rope.

The Musketeer quickly turned and knocked the dagger from Henri’s hands with a swift blow to the man’s wrist; the blow sent the dagger scattering across the floor.

Gaston grabbed the Musketeer from behind to secure his arms, but d’Artagnan swung around with such powerful momentum it sent the man flying off. “Get off me!” the Gascon yelled.

Jacques then kicked at d’Artagnan’s knee, finally sending the Musketeer to the floor clutching at his knee in pain.

“Bind his hands,” Henri snapped.

Jacques and Gaston tied the Musketeer’s hands to the long rope then walked to the other end and grasped it in their hands, ready to pull.

“Where is the letter?” Henri snarled.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” d’Artagnan answered with steadfast determination.

“Lift him up,” Henri motioned, raising his hands upward.

Jacques and Gaston heaved together on the rope, pulling d’Artagnan up by his tied wrists until his feet no longer touched the ground.

The Gascon yelled out from the sudden pain in his wrists and his shoulders as they bore the weight of his suspended body.

“Where is the letter?”

“I don’t know!”

“Very well,” Henri said dryly. “Jean-Pierre, you may commence.”

D’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder to see what Jean-Pierre was going to do when he heard the familiar _whoosh_ of the whip and the _crack!_ as it landed on his bare back.

The Musketeer screamed and lurched forward in reaction to the pain, causing him to begin spinning on the rope.

The next crack of the whip landed across his chest, as it happened to land there while spinning.

D’Artagnan’s thrashing and kicking caused him to sway and spin so Jacques could not land his whip properly; Henri stepped forward to still the movement of the hanging Musketeer.

Once more the whip came crashing down with stinging vengeance, making the Gascon arch his back as the leather met its target. D’Artagnan caused himself to spin wildly as he tossed about on the ropes again, his scream echoing off the walls of the room.

Henri stopped the Musketeer from spinning. "Where is the letter?”

“Go to hell,” d’Artagnan spat.

Henri took his dagger and sliced a four inch superficial cut along the Musketeer’s stomach, not deep, but just enough to bring droplets of blood to the surface. D’Artagnan screamed once more at the new stinging pain. 

Sweat rolled down the young Gascon’s skin, burning the lacerations caused by the whip on his chest and back. Drops of sweat dripped from d’Artagnan’s face and streamed down his neck.

Henri stepped away as Jean-Pierre brought the whip down again on d’Artagnan upper back and across his wounded shoulder.

“Stop. . . please,” d’Artagnan cried out.

“Tell me where I can find the letter and I will,” Henri answered, but the Musketeer said nothing. “Fine, have it your way.”

The leader took his dagger and sliced another long cut across d’Artagnan’s wounded shoulder; he watched as blood droplets popped up and dripped slowly downward along the length of the cut.

D’Artagnan swung his body to bump his hip into Henri, knocking the man off-balance; he stumbled, catching himself on one hand to stop his fall.

Jean-Pierre sent another lash of the whip down on the Gascon’s skin. The wicked man laughed as the stinging tail of the whip wrapped around d’Artagnan’s tender side.

The young Musketeer screamed in agony, his chest heaving with pain-filled breaths. His skin glistened wet with perspiration mixed with drops of blood rolling down his sticky body.

D’Artagnan allowed his mind to drift away with thoughts of Constance and her sweet kisses. He saw her beautiful brown eyes and smiled at the fond memories of her. He saw his father, busy plowing the fields before planting season; he called out to him and his father raised his head in response. . .

_Crack!_

The sudden flash of white-hot pain brought him back to reality with a scream escaping his mouth, registering strangely distant in his own ears. 

D’Artagnan let his head fall backward as he cried tears of anguish and resignation. He could feel himself growing nauseated from the relentless torment and brought his head forward as vomit spilled from his mouth and splashed on the floor.

The Gascon tried to lift his head again but had no strength left. His vision began to blur then fade to grey; he let his eyes slide closed.

“No!” Henri screamed out. “You are not going to pass out on me, Musketeer. Stop the whipping, Jean-Pierre,” he held up his hand to the tormentor.

“Why don’t we startle him awake with the brine, shall we?”

Jean-Pierre laughed as he lifted the bucket of brine and tossed the liquid over the front of d’Artagnan, causing the man to jolt as the salty mixture burned his many cuts, lashes and gashes. 

The tormentor circled around the Musketeer and repeated the splashing of brine on his back; the action elicited a gasp of pain from the hanging man who writhed with jerky movements.

Suddenly, the movement ceased as d’Artagnan slipped into blessed unconsciousness as his head tipped forward limply to his chest. 

“Dammit!” Henri cursed. “Cut him down and shackle him to the wall in his cell. Let’s get the large one in here and have our turn at breaking him into submission.”

*****

The unconscious d’Artagnan was dragged back to his cell and chained to the wall; his limp, wet body slumped against the cool stone.

Porthos watched his young friend with horror as he observed the fresh bleeding cuts and lashes. “How much more can your battered body endure before it simply shuts down?” The large Musketeer asked his unconscious friend.

 _Is this damn letter really worth all of this? Is it worth d’Artagnan’s life? Is it worth mine?_ Porthos gave a low, throaty growl.

“It’s your turn now,” Henri said as he entered the cell. “Let’s see how much I’ll enjoy watching you squirm like your friend here did. I’ll have to hand it to the young man… he is tough; he’s a strong one, that Gascon.”

“D’Artagnan is strong; he always has been.” Porthos beamed with pride, but then his face fell as he gazed at the desperate condition of the fine, young soldier. _This isn’t fair, dammit. D’Artagnan doesn’t deserve this._

Porthos’ eyes filled with tears. "One day he’ll be the greatest of us all.”

“That is only _if_ he lives to see another day,” Henri chirped.

Porthos was hauled to his feet and led to the large room, without another word spoken. The Musketeer’s hands were tied to the long rope connected to the pulley, surprisingly without any resistance from the large man.

The large Musketeer looked around the room in horror as he saw the pools of vomit, blood, and standing water. He looked up at the pulley and rope hanging from the ceiling and groaned; his breath hitched in his throat as dread crept up from his belly.

It took three men pulling on the rope to lift Porthos’ large frame off the ground. His breath hissed through his teeth, wincing at the horrible pain now shooting through his stressed shoulders and throbbing wrists at being suspended in the air.

The sudden stinging _crack_ of the whip on his back jolted the Musketeer forward as his scream echoed off the walls of the room.

Porthos twisted on the rope, trying to free his hands, but it was too tight. The weight of his body hanging from his wrists cut off the circulation in his hands and dug into his skin, causing his fingers to go numb.

The large Musketeer howled in pain as the _crack_ of leather bit into the tender flesh of his stomach. Soon his skin dripped wet with sweat running in rivulets, joining the streams of blood now drizzling down.

He twisted his body, getting the momentum of the rope to turn him in circles; only to have the angry leather thrust him into the opposite direction.

The dizzying circles did not stop the thrashing of the whip as it landed wherever the long leather fingers fell onto Porthos’ back, shoulders, stomach, chest and sides.

“Is your king worth this, Musketeer?” Henri snarled. “There is no shame in saving yourself. It is, after all, our natural and basic instinct to survive.”

“Go to hell, louse,” Porthos spat through clenched teeth. He blinked back the sweat stinging in his eyes; his chest heaved in and out from exertion and pain.

Henri dropped the whip then brought out his dagger.

Porthos’ eyes widened in fear, thinking he was about to be eviscerated like an animal. The large man shuddered as he pictured his fellow Musketeers finding his body hanging by his wrists with his innards spilled out onto the floor, a pool of blood beneath him.

Henri cut a six inch shallow graze across his stomach, bringing the accustomed droplets of blood to the surface.

Porthos’ breath hitched, though no other sound escaped the disciplined soldier.

The ruthless leader was disappointed at the lack of response and took the dagger across the length of Porthos’ lower back, slightly deeper this time.

The Musketeer could feel the warm flow of blood trickling down his skin, soaking into his braies.

Shaking his head, Henri cut a slice of flesh open down the length of his left side, just enough to bring droplets of red.

The stinging, burning agony coursing through Porthos’ body began to take a heavy toll on the Musketeer’s will to hang on. He no longer cared if he stayed conscious but rather wished for the blessed relief of darkness.

Worse yet, Porthos no longer cared if Henri just ended this torment right now by ending his life.

At least he would not be hurting anymore.

The tormentor was growing more agitated at Porthos’ stubborn nature. Henri was tiring of the Musketeer being like a rock of loyalty and devotion; he decided then to change tactics.

Rather than cutting a shallow laceration across the skin, Henri took his dagger and thrust it into Porthos’ lower chest, just under the ribcage on his left side. The tormentor then stood to watch the Musketeer’s reaction, hoping the man would plead for his life. Better yet, he hoped the wounded man would openly confess to the location of the letter.

The large Musketeer gasped and bit down on his lip to stifle the cries of pain, keeping mum to any further sounds. Blood slowly seeped from the penetrating wound, but Porthos no longer cared what happened to him. Perhaps this was the fatal blow he had been wishing for.

The dagger stuck out of Porthos’ body several inches at an angle after glancing off a rib. Henri pulled it out as he laughed menacingly, causing more blood to flow as the blade was freed from the wound.

Henri fetched the bucket of brine and tossed the liquid over the front of the large Musketeer; he followed with the remainder of the brine, splashing it across his back.

Porthos twitched and jerked with burning agony from the sodium mixture, causing him to involuntarily cry out at the pain. The brine seemed to cause every open cut, gash and laceration to burn as though he had been lit on fire.

Unable to handle any further senseless and sadistic torture, Porthos lost his will to stay conscious and gave in to the beckoning darkness. He felt nothing as the three men, holding the rope suspending the large Musketeer’s weight, suddenly let go; his limp body fell to the floor, in a bloody heap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The goons thought they were adding to the torture by pouring a brine solution (salt water) on the boys’s lacerated backs, when in fact, they were doing them a favor by cleansing the wounds and killing bacteria—albeit in a very painful, burning manner. Here are some benefits of salt used in history:
> 
> Salt is mentioned as an essential ingredient in medical science in some of the oldest medical scripts. The ancient Egyptians recommended salt for the treatment of infected chest wounds as the belief that salt would dry out and disinfect the wound. 
> 
> _Ebers (1600 B.C.)_ describes many salt recipes especially for making laxatives and anti-infection medicines. Salt-based remedies were also prescribed for callous skin, epidemic diseases, to check bleeding, as an eye ointment, and to accelerate childbirth.
> 
>  _Hippocrates_ also mentions inhalation of steam from salt-water. We know today that the anti-inflammatory effects of inhaled salt provide relief from respiratory symptoms So, 2000 years ago, Greek medicine had already discovered topical use of salt for skin lesions, drinking salty or mineralized waters for digestive troubles and inhaling salt-steam for respiratory diseases.
> 
> Pharmacies of the 16th century used to relate the various uses of salt to its external aspect (rock salt, sea salt, refined salt and roasted salt). Respect for salt was as deep as prices were high. Until the 18th century, the preferred and most common pharmacy salt was rock salt which, in Germany, came chiefly from the Carpathian Mountains, Transylvania, the Tyrol, and Poland.  
> The pharmacists of the 19th century recommended internal use of salt against digestive upsets, goitre, glandular diseases, intestinal worms, dysentery, dropsy, epilepsy, and syphilis.


	10. Search and Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers rode up the long path to the large three-story stone château but as they were about to dismount their horses, both stopped cold when they heard the sound of screaming coming from somewhere deep inside the structure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, at last, we arrive at the desperate search for the missing brothers. I could have split this chapter into two parts, giving you quite the cliffhanger for the weekend, but I was told that it would have been _"torture"_ to do so. I don't know about you, but I'm rather tired of the torture...

Athos and Aramis rode west toward Blois following the Loire River. Reaching the little village of Saint-Ay, Athos called out to an elderly man sitting in front of his riverfront shop.

“Excuse me, sir, I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers,” he introduced himself. “Did you happen to see two other Musketeers riding this way a day or two ago? One would be a rather large man with a big hat; and the other is a younger, slender man with dark hair and no hat?”

“Yes, I remember quite well two men riding by here two days ago who fit your description,” the man replied kindly. “I see a lot of comings and goings sitting here; a lot of travelers come by this way. I saw a large man and his younger companion ride by here acting like they were being followed.” 

Athos’ eyes widened and he visibly perked at the mention of his friends being followed. Glancing at Aramis he noticed the medic’s posture was also alert. The medic rode closer to join the conversation. “Tell us what you saw, if you would, please.”

“Well, the larger man kept turning around in his saddle, like he was being followed—that’s why I noticed them,” the elderly man nodded. “The two men seemed suspicious of something and it was very obvious. You see, we have highwaymen who prey on unsuspecting travelers around these parts. . .”

“Yes, I know,” Aramis grumbled. The medic grimaced at a sudden pain in his ribs, but remained quiet.

Athos frowned at the medic's obvious pain, but prodded the stranger to continue his story. “Please, sir, do continue.”

“What was I saying?” The old man scratched his head, then snapped his fingers as he remembered. “Oh yes, not too long after your two men rode by I watched as a band of four men came out from behind those trees over there,” he said, pointing to a small grove across the road. “They were definitely watching your riders ‘cause I watched as they followed behind them; I know this after years of watching people around here. I would bet they were heading to Blois."

“Yes, they were.” Athos scrubbed a hand over his face. “Thank you, sir, for all of your help; you have been most kind.” The Musketeer bowed in the saddle then raised his hat to the gentleman. 

“You are most welcome, Musketeers.”

Athos and Aramis smiled at the kind man before turning their horses to the road. “At least we know we’re on the right track, but we also know they had four men following them who didn’t want to be noticed. I don’t like the sound of this,” Aramis said with a worried frown.

“I don’t either, dammit,” Athos growled. “We have a lot of ground to cover so let’s keep moving.” The Musketeer lieutenant kicked his horse onward to the next village, determined to track down his friends. 

The old man watched as the Musketeers disappeared down the road and shook his head. “May God have mercy on the four men who were following those missing riders. If those two boys are harmed in any way, that Athos will have no mercy.” 

The wind blew relentlessly in Athos’ face as they rode west, making breathing without coughing difficult. He pushed his hat down so the wind would deflect off the rim, rather than blow directly into his face. He struggled to stifle the coughs with controlled breathing—taking shallow breaths in and out through his nose-- to prevent his lungs from rebelling.

Athos’ effort to stifle his coughs did not go unnoticed by Aramis, however. He watched his friend with concern, as it was obvious to the medic that cough was giving him trouble.

The Musketeers perked as they viewed a large château a ways off the road facing toward the river. “Let’s stop here to see if anyone knows anything.” Athos turned his horse down the long path leading to the front of the magnificent grey stone castle. 

Looking around, the two Musketeers thought it strange that there was no activity around the large château—there were no people, no carriages, no servants, nothing. 

“This is strange.” Athos observed as he looked around the grounds of the château. “It almost looks abandoned.” 

The château grounds looked as though they hadn’t been tended to in years, the landscape was overgrown with weeds and long grass. The once-manicured lawn had long ago grown into a field of weeds, wild flowers and wild grasses; even the structure itself looked unkempt and uncared for. Glancing at Aramis, Athos walked to the front double-door entry and knocked loudly. The knock seemed to echo into nothingness; there were no sounds of movement behind the door.

Athos checked the handle; finding it unlocked, he opened the door just enough to peek inside. The massive foyer was empty of furniture except one chair sitting near the door. The room was lit with sunshine streaming through the tall, slender window above the double doors. The high vaulted ceilings made the room appear open and airy but it was obvious from the layers of dust on the marbled floor that the château was abandoned. 

“There’s no one here,” Athos said to Aramis who had come to the door with his brother Musketeer. “Let’s go on and check the next place we come to.” Athos shut the door and started toward his horse to leave. Pausing, he turned to take one more look at the château, taking sweeping glances with his eyes over the stone walls covering three floors of living space inside. 

Shaking his head, he mounted his horse then rode the long path back toward the road to Blois. As the Musketeers left the property, Athos took another lengthy look at the beautiful château; his brow furrowed with unasked questions.

“What is it, Athos?” Aramis watched his friend staring at the structure, taking notice of his strange behavior regarding this particular château. Aramis knew that usually Athos’ gut instincts were correct when he suspected something was amiss. “Do you want to go back and look inside?”

Athos didn’t answer for a moment but continued staring. “No, we need to keep moving,” he shook his head. “Surely they made it further along than this. We’ll go on and keep looking.”

“Alright then, lead the way,” Aramis agreed. He looked back at the château; something did feel odd about this place but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. _Why was the château abandoned? There’s a lot of space people could use for doing things in secret… and no one would ever know. Maybe we should have taken the time to look._

Along the road Aramis constantly shifted in his saddle as he tried to alleviate the throbbing in his ribs, now making riding almost unbearable. If it weren’t for the desperate search to find their missing brothers, he would have asked for a break; however, time was something they could not afford to waste. The medic bit down on his lip and breathed through the waves of pain pulsating through his sides.

“Are you okay?” Athos asked as he watched his friend grimace in pain.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Aramis lied. “Look, there’s another village ahead with a massive castle,” the medic motioned with his head toward the enormous grey stone structure.

“Looks like we’ve come across the Château de Beaugency, Athos nodded at Aramis. “I know someone who lives here; let’s go pay our respects.”

Athos felt tickling in his throat with the rise of another cough, though he tried to ignore it. He took a drink from his waterskin but it did nothing to stop the fit of harsh coughing that doubled him over in his saddle. Gulping for air, Athos tried breathing through his nose; he scowled as the action only encouraged more coughing.

Aramis slid up next to Athos and pounded on the man’s back with his open hand to loosen the congestion in his chest. Athos nodded his thanks then turned his head to rid the sputum loosened from his congested lungs. “Sorry,” he apologized.

“Don’t be sorry, Athos,” Aramis countered softly. “Damn, we need to find Porthos and d’Artagnan soon; I don’t know how much longer either of us will last in the saddle.”

Athos and Aramis rode through the gates of the Château de Beaugency to the inner courtyard where they were greeted by a groundsman. After introductions were made they were taken to the butler who then ushered them into the parlor to wait for the steward.

“I deeply apologize for the absence of the duke but he is away on business. I am Monsieur Charles Chambord, Steward of Beaugency; how may I help you gentlemen?”

“I am Athos and this is Aramis,” he introduced. “We are of the King’s Musketeers.”

“Welcome, Musketeers,” Steward Chambord bowed. “Please, come into the study with me.” The steward led the men to his study and offered them a seat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Two days ago, two of our Musketeers were on a mission for the king in this general vicinity but they are now missing. They were last seen traveling west from Saint-Ay, where a witness confirmed they were being followed by a band of four men,” Athos explained. “We are trying to find them and were wondering if anyone has seen them; or, perhaps, if anyone has heard of bandits kidnapping anyone in this area?”

“No,” the steward paused at the grim news. “I am sorry, but I certainly have not heard of any such activity. However, if you would allow me to gather the staff, I’ll ask if anyone else has seen or heard anything.”

“Thank you, Steward, we would appreciate that very much,” Aramis answered with a nod.

“Very well,” the steward bowed. “If you gentlemen would like to wait here for a few minutes, I will return shortly. Please, help yourselves to refreshments and drink.”

Athos and Aramis looked around the study at the many volumes of books on the tall shelves. They glanced with interest at a few mementos and trinkets of travels from around the world, but what captured Athos’ attention was a map of the châteaux, castles and manors in the Loire Valley.

“Look at this map, Aramis,” Athos called. “Here is where we are,” he pointed to Beaugency on the map then glanced at Aramis. “Here is Saint-Ay, where the man saw the bandits following Porthos and d’Artagnan.”

Athos’ finger slid along the river a short distance stopping at the first château. “This says Château de Meung-sur-Loire. . .” he stopped as his breath caught in his throat.

Aramis thought he was having another coughing attack; instead, Athos stood frozen as he grew suddenly pale, while swaying on his feet. “Oh no.”

“What is it, Athos?” Aramis asked with concern. “What the hell is the matter?”

“This château, I think this is the one we stopped at earlier but found abandoned,” he pointed again to the map. “This _is_ it!”

Just then, Steward Chambord returned to the study. “I apologize, gentlemen but no one has seen or heard anything of your Musketeers.”

Both men sighed, letting out disappointed breaths. “What do you know of this Château de Meung-sur-Loire?” Athos asked.

“Oh, the Meung? That has been abandoned since the War of Religion, about sixty-five years ago,” the steward answered. “I hear it's being turned into a prison, or will be soon. There is a dungeon in the lower levels; it certainly gives the prison the space necessary for the worst criminals.”

Athos swayed on his feet and, if not for Aramis and M. Chambord aiding him to a chair, he would have collapsed to the floor. The steward went to fetch a glass of water as the Musketeer began coughing heavily.

Aramis stood beside him pounding on his back while whispering for him to breathe slowly, offering him a napkin for disposing loosened sputum. The Musketeer accepted the glass of water and gratefully gulped it down after the coughing began to subside.

“Are you okay?” Aramis knelt down to look directly at Athos’ face, now flushed red from the coughing. Drops of sweat formed across his forehead and on his upper lip and began to slowly slide down his skin; the medic wiped the droplets away.

“I. . . I’m f-fine,” Athos pointed to the map with alarm. “We. . . we were just there; we even opened the front door and looked inside. We didn’t hear anything. . . maybe we should have investigated further.”

“I think we need to go back there. . .” Aramis began but was interrupted as a servant burst into the room.

“Monsieur Chambord, you are needed right away at the keep,” the servant requested, out of breath.

“Gentlemen, I must go,” Steward Chambord apologized. “Please, stay as long as you need. I can help you locate your men, if you would like, after I return.”

“No, that is quite generous of you but we will be on our way.” Athos turned down the offer as he shook the steward’s hand. “Time is of the essence, we’re afraid.”

“Allow me to show you gentlemen out then.” Steward Chambord walked them to their horses in the courtyard. “I do pray you find your missing Musketeers. Goodbye and godspeed, gentlemen.” 

“Thank you, Monsieur Chambord.” Athos and Aramis shook the steward’s hand then mounted their horses. The Musketeers rode away at a gallop, returning to the massive abandoned château they just visited only hours ago.

“If only we had checked the lower levels,” Aramis yelled to Athos, regret filling his voice. “I had a strange feeling about that place as we were leaving.”

“You felt it too?” Athos paled at the announcement. “Yes, I was feeling _something_ too, but I couldn’t place it. I don’t know, but it’s almost like. . .”

“It’s almost like we sensed Porthos and d’Artagnan were there!” Aramis finished for his friend. The men kicked their horses into a faster run with a greater sense of urgency. The Musketeers returned to the château they had left behind, wishing they had followed their gut instincts and looked around when they were there.

*****

The Musketeers rode up the long path to the large three-story stone château with a growing sense of dread. As the men were about to dismount their horses, both stopped cold when they heard the sound of screaming coming from somewhere deep inside the structure. 

“Oh God,” Aramis yelled as he jumped from his horse then hit the ground running toward the front door.

Athos was right behind him, until he had to lean over at the waist to catch his breath. _Come on, dammit! I don’t have time for this._ The Musketeer straightened back up and ran to catch up to Aramis, both following the sound of screaming.

The pounding sound of boots running on the marble floor echoed in the large empty foyer. As the Musketeers reached a spiral staircase leading downward, the screams grew louder. The rescuers each pulled out their pistols then ran quietly down the stone steps, allowing the screams to guide the way.

The spiral staircase ended with a narrow corridor with a single door at the end. They ran to the doorway only to find another long, very steep staircase going down. The men couldn't tell how far the stairs descended due to the pitch-black darkness; the stairs were swallowed up in the blackness. They traded apprehensive glances before stepping into the unknown.

Using their hands along the cold stone walls, the Musketeers crept down the stairs into the darkness. They felt out carefully with their feet before every step for fear of tumbling the uncertain depth of the dangerous staircase. The deeper they crept down into the basement, the blacker the darkness became until they could no longer see even their hand in front of their face. 

The sounds of their screaming would have to serve as their guide, as they continued in the pitch darkness. Without torches to light their path, they had to feel along the walls through the dark hallways toward the screams.

Finally, Aramis spotted a faint light coming from the end of the hallway. “Are you doing alright back there?” The medic whispered to Athos, reaching behind him to feel for his friend. If not for the labored breathing coming from somewhere behind him, he would have thought he was alone in the darkness.

“Yes, I… I’m f-fine,” Athos stammered. The thick, stale air in the dungeon was making his breathing even more difficult that it already was.

“I see a light ahead,” Aramis motioned pointlessly with his head. “Hang on Athos, I think we’re almost there.” 

As they peeked around the doorway into the macabre room their heart skipped a beat and they gasped at the sight. The large open space had a floor of stone; dozens of candles were spread evenly throughout the room, casting ghastly shadows on the stone walls. On one side of the room, there were shelves containing rope, whips, manacles, chains, and torture devices of various sorts.

However, it was the sight of two beds of wooden racks-- one holding Porthos and the other holding d’Artagnan-- that stopped them dead in their tracks. Large wooden rollers were located at the foot and head of each rack; the rollers had cranks to tighten the ropes tied around the hands and feet of each of the Musketeers.

“Where is the letter?” Henri yelled with fury.

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan screamed. His agonizing screams were laced with terror; the sound echoed off the stone as the men cranked the rollers one more round, stretching the ropes attached to their arms and feet.

“Tell us where the letter is, _Musketeer,_ or you’re about to get a lot taller!” Gaston threatened. 

“Damn you to hell, I don’t goddamned know,” Porthos yelled. He screamed in anguish as the rollers were cranked yet another round, pulling the large man’s limbs to the breaking point.

Athos and Aramis rushed into the room, shooting Henri and Gaston standing at the head of each wooden rack. Both sadistic men fell over dead to the cold, stone floor.

The rescuers pulled out their swords, also drawing their main gauche from behind their back, so both hands were armed and ready to fight.

Jacques circled around the rack holding Porthos as Athos moved his direction. The tormentor grabbed a torture tool from the shelf, holding it ready, as the Musketeer raised his sword to strike. The sound of metal on metal rang loud, bouncing off the stone as Jacques easily blocked Athos’ strike with the tool. 

Jacques held up the cat’s paw to block another lunged strike then circled back around the wooden rack. _Is this how it’s going to be, going around in circles all day? This is ridiculous, we don’t have time for child’s play,_ Athos thought.

Catching Jacques off-guard, Athos stepped _across_ the rack with his sword aimed straight forward, plunging it deep into the vicious man’s chest. Shock at the sudden attack of pain did not stop the tormentor’s arm from bringing the cat’s paw down across Athos’ left arm with one last barbaric blow. 

The four sharp metal claws dug deeply into the Musketeer’s arm, tearing the leather sleeve, while causing his main gauche to skitter across the floor. Athos yelled out in pain, causing a satisfied grin to spread across Jacques’s face; it disappeared as he fell to the floor dead.

Aramis was embroiled in a game of cat-and-mouse, fighting with Jean-Pierre the same as Athos did with his opponent; each of the men circled around the rack unable to reach each other. Athos distracted the tormentor, who made the mistake of turning his back to Aramis, and opened the perfect opportunity for the marksman to strike.

The Musketeer plunged his sword so deep into the back of Jean-Pierre, the tip peeked out through his chest. Athos stepped aside as the man fell forward, the metal tip clanking against the stone floor as he fell down dead.

Turning to the two racks, Athos and Aramis cringed with horror at the appalling condition of their friends. The bare skin on the chest and stomach of d’Artagnan and Porthos was crisscrossed red with bloody cuts and lacerations; evidence left behind from the many stinging lashes of a cruel leather whip and the cold steel edge of a sharp dagger. 

Mixed with the red lacerations were angry bruises of dark purple and blue, caused by a flurry of fisted hands and heavy boots. Barely visible were long, thin lines of red where the knife had been deliberately dragged along the surface of the skin, creating red droplets, like pearls on a necklace. 

Despite the horrific condition of the Musketeers, each appeared to have one wound more acute that stood out above their repugnant collection of injuries. Aramis’ trained eye fixated on Porthos’ wounded chest first, detailing the diagnosis in his mind.

_Porthos has a puncture stab wound just under his ribcage, which is both good and bad; if the wound is low enough, it most likely missed the lung. But if it’s deep, there could be damage to his diaphragm, which will then cause difficulty in breathing, as well as internal bleeding. He’s going to need surgery to determine how deep the stab wound is._

The medic sat on the rack’s edge to survey the sickening damage done to the young Gascon’s body. Aramis shook his head as his eyes moved to the gunshot wound on d’Artagnan’s upper right shoulder. _This happened a while ago and it hasn’t yet been treated; they only made matters worse with the torture and abuse. I better examine the wound for infection later._

Gently turning the young man, the medic found the exit wound near the outer edge of the scapula; he sighed with relief in finding that it missed the bone. Aramis examined the deeper knife cut just underneath the bullet hole to determine whether the wound would require stitches.

Both the tortured Musketeers, still lying in the death grip of the wooden racks, broke down and sobbed as their rescuers began untying them-- freeing them at last from their grisly nightmare. The hours of relentless agony and torment at the hands of devils, housed deep in the bowels of hell itself, were finally and blessedly over.

Each of the men knew they couldn’t have lasted any longer. They were tired of pretending to be strong, when inside all they wanted to do was give up and die. Now that their brothers were here at last, freeing them from the nightmare they thought would only end in their death, they gave up fortitude. The tortured men gave up the will to be strong and wilted in the arms of their brothers; there was nothing left for them to do. . . but cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Château de Beaugency:_ It was a stately château owned by the Lords of Beaugency until the 14th century. It was then taken over by the crown of France and the Dukes of Orléans from the 14th century until the French Revolution. Notable owners include Francis I, King Louis XI, Gaston duc d’Orléans.  
>  Joan of Arc was a guest here before her famous quest.
> 
> Jean Dunois “the Bastard of Orléans” (1403-1460) is buried on the grounds. He was the illegitimate son of Louis I, Duke of Orléans.
> 
> Recap of _Château de Meung-sur-Loire:_  
>  The dungeons of Château de Meung-sur-Loire were in the basement, having very steep stairs to arrive down there. The hallway floors were dirt, but whether the cells also had dirt floors or not, I don’t know… I took the liberty to make them stone.
> 
> Dungeons in various château/castle basements had cells that varied from pitch-black dark to having one small window for light. Some cells were extremely small with little room to move around; while others were bigger with manacles hanging from ceiling and/or on the walls. Some had stone floors; while others had dirt floors. Some rooms were set aside as torture chambers, as Meung-sur-Loire was found to still contain some torture devices, even tables used for water torture.
> 
> Cat’s Paw torture devices looked much like a garden rake with (usually) four metal pronged “claws” that the torturer would then rake across a person’s bare skin to tear it literally to shreds. The evil devices were appropriately also called “flesh rippers.” Very nasty devices!


	11. The Château of Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let’s get away from here,” Athos voiced as he gently kicked the horse into motion. At last, the group of four brothers left the château of horrors behind them without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The goons are dead but now they face the challenge of getting out of the Château which brought so much torment to the boys. Escaping the château is a challenge indeed...
> 
> This is another long chapter. Please, enjoy!

Athos gathered Porthos into his arms as a flood of relief washed over the large Musketeer, resulting in a torrent of emotional tears. The lieutenant comforted his friend with quiet support, as there were no words fitting for such an experience as this; he let his friend cry until there were no tears left. The tears were soon replaced by a forcible will to break away from the ropes binding him to the barbaric apparatus and the hellish dungeon.

Aramis held d’Artagnan as the young man sobbed uncontrollably, releasing despondent tears overflowing from a heart broken by his loss of courage and self-imposed personal doubt. A dam of sentiment had been broken, allowing the outpouring of emotions from the constant, brutal suffering at hands of cold-blooded monsters. 

D’Artagnan’s arms hung limply at his side; they ached from being stretched almost to the breaking point. Aramis untied the pieces of rope still hanging from the Gascon’s wrists. "Can you move your arms?” the medic asked apprehensively.

The young Gascon shook his head. “I can’t feel my arms,” he panicked. “Aramis, are my arms permanently damaged?”

“Hold on now, d’Artagnan, try not to panic; let me have a look to make sure nothing is torn or broken.” Aramis raised the Gascon’s left arm carefully above his head. The medic watched his brother closely as he felt along the socket and muscles of the arm; he paid particularly close attention as he brought the arm back down to rest on d’Artagnan’s lap.

The medic then moved to the right arm and shook his head with disgust as he examined the angry gunshot wound, still torn ragged after being sliced open by the savage men. At the movement of his arm—no matter how gentle Aramis was being—it caused d’Artagnan to scream out in anguish.

Aramis carefully felt along the socket and rotator cuff then laid the arm in the Gascon’s lap, not feeling displacement or tears. “Both shoulders appear to be intact with no tears or breaks, but your muscles and joints have been stretched to almost beyond their limit. You will be very sore from the amount of abuse you’ve taken, my friend.”

D’Artagnan nodded as more despairing tears welled in his eyes then spilled out and rolled down already-wet cheeks. 

“Aw, d’Artagnan, I can’t imagine the hell you’ve been through in this abominable place." Aramis choked up as he wiped away the tears. “How’s Porthos doing?” the medic asked Athos as he was tending to the large Musketeer.

“I didn’t detect any breaks or tears with his arms, either,” Athos reported. “Thankfully, they didn’t have time to do permanent damage on these racks; if we had been any later. . .” Athos’ voice cracked at the gruesome thought.

Athos cleared his throat before continuing. “I haven’t checked his legs, but I'll let you know here in a minute.” The Musketeer lieutenant untied Porthos’ feet then gently felt along his ankles, knees and hips for broken bones. “Doesn’t feel like he has any broken bones; however, you should take a look at this stab wound before we move him.”

Aramis patted d’Artagnan softly on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

The medic sat on the frame of the wooden rack and began examining Porthos’ stab wound. Aramis put his ear to the large Musketeer’s chest, above his left lung to listen for breath sounds. “Have you experienced any difficulty breathing?”

“Maybe a little,” Porthos answered weakly. “Since it hap’nd I’ve had this sharp pain ‘tween my shoulder blades—not constant pain—but sometimes it aches.”

“Uh oh.” Aramis instantly regretted voicing his concern out loud at the alarm it raised.

“What?” Athos asked with worry.

Sighing, Aramis knew he had to be truthful regarding Porthos’ potential injury. “It’s possible that the knife may have penetrated the diaphragm. The diaphragm is a thick sheet of muscle that help expand our lungs when we inhale; if there is any damage to the diaphragm, it restricts our ability to breathe.”

“What does that have to do with pain between the shoulder blades?” Athos asked.

“I don’t really know why that happens but it is one of the known symptoms.” Aramis looked closely at the wound again and shook his head. “I’m not a doctor, but by looking at the wound, I would say it’s going to need surgery—and this goes beyond my skill level. We need to get him to Blois as soon as possible.”

“Are you able to sit up?” Athos asked his wounded friend.

Porthos nodded but remained quiet, closing his eyes.

Athos and Aramis retrieved their swords and daggers—without care—from the dead men’s bodies before returning to help Porthos. As the lieutenant reached to help Porthos sit up, the medic suddenly noticed Athos’ torn left doublet sleeve with his lower arm and hand now covered in blood.

“What the hell happened to your arm, Athos?” Aramis asked, his eyes wide with shock at the sight. “Why didn’t you say you were hurt?”

“Aramis please, not now.” Athos dismissed the medic’s inquiry, waving him off with his right hand. “Our first priority is taking care of Porthos and d’Artagnan—my arm can wait.”

“Athos, it looks to be bleeding quite heavily and unless you want to pass out from blood loss. . .”

“I said it can wait,” Athos snapped, his tone absolute. “Now, let’s help Porthos get up so we can get the hell out of here.”

The two Musketeers pulled Porthos into a full upright position, turning him so that his legs draped over the edge of the rack. The large Musketeer cried out in pain with his hand going protectively to his wounded side, but Aramis pulled his hand away. “No, don’t touch it,” he shook his head. “We need to keep it clean, so keep your hands away.” 

“You ready to stand?” Athos asked as he and Aramis rounded behind Porthos to help him to his feet. The rescuing Musketeers couldn’t help the gasps of horror as they saw their friend’s wounded back; the skin was colored with a multitude of bloody stripes caused by the whip wielded in the hands of a devil. 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Aramis exclaimed, choking on astonished tears. He drew a hand to his mouth to stifle any further cries threatening to escape. “Aw, Porthos. . .”

“I’m okay, ‘Mis,” Porthos whispered softly. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, I handled it.”

“Dammit, you shouldn’t have had to handle. . . _this!”_ Aramis waved his hand over Porthos’ chest and back with disgust.

“I jus’ want to ge’ ou’ of here, please,” Porthos begged.

Athos rounded the rack to stand ready on Porthos’ left side. “Once we get Porthos on his feet, I can handle him by myself,” he told Aramis. “Can you get d’Artagnan up on his feet by yourself?”

“I’m not an invalid!” d’Artagnan snapped with a little more ire than he meant. He didn’t mean to sound angry, it certainly wasn’t Athos’ fault he was hurt, but the anger was there nonetheless. _None of this experience—the kidnapping and the torture—needed to happen. Why were we put through this hell just to protect a damn letter?_

Athos and Aramis exchange worried glances but remained quiet. They each threw an arm around Porthos’ shoulders then used their own weight to pull him to his feet, eliciting a scream of pain from the large man. 

The two friends frowned as they watched their friend suffering quietly in pain. They waited patiently until Porthos stopped swaying and his dizziness passed before Aramis pulled himself away to go help d’Artagnan.

“You sure you can handle him?” Aramis turned, watching with widened eyes as blood dripped from Athos’ hand.

“I’m no’ an invalid neither!” Porthos growled, interrupting the response Athos was about to give Aramis. “We need to stop by the cell and pick up our clothes,” he paused, “I need my boots.”

“Do you know where your cell is from here?” Athos peered into the hall. “It’s pretty dark out there,” he frowned as he looked up the hall one way and then the other. “We better take a candle so we can see where we’re going.”

“Yeah, I think I ca’ find it.” Porthos began walking while leaning on Athos for support. The pair stopped briefly to retrieve a candle from the wall before heading into the dark hallway.

Aramis helped d’Artagnan to his feet and, once again, gasped in horror at the ghastly sight of the torn and sliced back of his young friend. “Dear God, what did they do to you in this place?” 

“Can we talk about it later?” d’Artagnan pleaded. “I just want to get out of here, please.” 

The medic waited patiently as the Gascon swayed on his feet with dizziness, allowing him a moment to gather his strength. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to walk out of here?” Aramis inquired, his voice soft. “There are a lot of steps we have to climb before reaching the main floor, are you up to it?”

“Yes, I'm up to it.” D’Artagnan forced a smile at the medic’s concern. “I just want to get the bloody hell out of here.”

“Alright, let’s get your clothes and get away from this godforsaken place.” Aramis and d’Artagnan each picked up a candle from the wall then followed behind the leading pair. The candles struck ghoulish shadows along the stone corridor, eerily lighting the small prison cells as they passed.

D’Artagnan’s breathing quickened, his heart racing, as he peered with horror inside the small cells as they passed; he almost expected to be pulled in and made prisoner once again.

“It’s alright, brother,” Aramis soothed softly. “We’re getting you out of here; just hang on a little while longer.”

Turning a corner in the hallway, the leading pair reached the large prison cell that had become both a place of terror and a place of refuge for Porthos and d’Artagnan. Athos looked around and noticed the sets of shackles hanging from iron rings mounted on the wall. His eyes widened at the streaks of blood on the pale stone where his friends had leaned; he gasped aloud upon seeing the blood dotting the floor near the wall and also at his feet where he stood.

Looking up, Athos then saw the manacles hanging from long chains connected to the ceiling. “Dear God,” the Musketeer exclaimed as he glanced at Porthos. He couldn't imagine the horror his friends must have gone through in this hellish place. _At least they weren’t in pitch-black darkness, which only would have added to their fears._ Athos glanced gratefully at the small square window where light streamed in.

“I need to get out o’ here!” Porthos began to panic, his broad chest heaved with anxiety. His eyes widened as he stared at the wall with the blood streaked on the stone; his mind wandered back to the suffering he endured while sitting there in that spot. 

“Porthos, slow your breathing down,” Athos instructed. “We’re getting you out of here.” The Musketeer lieutenant placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Let’s get you dressed, shall we?”

D’Artagnan and Aramis then entered the cell. The medic stopped in his tracks as his eyes fell on the blood-streaked wall and the droplets of blood all around on the floor. His widened eyes shifted upward where he spotted the hanging manacles, causing his breath to catch in his throat. “Oh God,” he gasped in horror.

“I just want to get dressed and get the hell out of here.” D’Artagnan growled as he pulled his clothes on gingerly over his wounds. 

Porthos grabbed his footgear then put his hand down inside the right boot, desperately feeling around. He visibly sighed with relief, almost tipping over as he dropped his boot to the floor.

“What’s wrong, Porthos?” Athos asked, picking up the dropped boot.

“Nothing, dammit!” Porthos growled as he snatched the boot from Athos’ grasp. “Let me get dressed so we can go!”

Athos flinched at the uncharacteristic anger coming from his friend; he put a hand against the wall to steady himself as he wavered on his feet. 

“Athos, are you alright?” Aramis asked after watching the emotional exchange between his friends. The medic shook his head, saddened by the anger seeping from his normally-amicable brothers. _We need to get them out of here as the walls themselves appear to be stirring up rage._

"Let us get the bloody hell out of here.” Athos motioned with his head toward the hall as the two men finished dressing. The four Musketeers began the slow and exhausting ascent up the narrow and steep stairs, leaving the dark and gruesome dungeon behind them. As they climbed higher, Porthos and d’Artagnan continued throwing frightened glances over their shoulder, as though expecting to be pulled back down into the depths of hell by unseen forces. 

Once in the narrow corridor, the group of men rested a moment so they could all catch their breath; each were now sweating profusely and panting heavily from the taxing exertion.

Athos leaned against the wall as he felt the heaviness in his chest giving rise to a hacking cough. Doubling over, Athos gave in to the fit of coughing, stealing away his breath and stripping away his strength. He fell to his knees but reached out with his left hand to keep from falling on his face; in doing so, he left a bloody hand print smeared on the wall.

“Athos, dammit, are you okay?” Aramis rushed to his friend’s side. He knelt beside the sick man then took his handkerchief from his pocket to wrap it tightly around the wounded arm. 

“Athos, you’re supposed to be in bed taking it easy,” d’Artagnan scolded. He frowned with worry as he pounded gently on his back, until Athos was able to catch his breath.

“If I. . . st-stayed home in b-bed. . . who would have come to r-rescue you, huh?” Athos panted, trying to shake the dizziness away.

“Are you alright?” Aramis asked as he finished wrapping the arm.

"Yes, let’s keep moving,” the Musketeer nodded. Athos cleared his throat to chase away any further coughs tickling at his throat. He gratefully accepted the help of Porthos and Aramis as they lifted him to his feet. The group continued on with the climb out of the dungeon, each man desperate to be free of the wretched place.

The winding staircase seemed to take hours, sapping any strength the wounded Musketeers had remaining; the group had to stop several times to catch their breath before being able to continue. The four brothers helped each other—sometimes pulling, sometimes being pulled—as they made their desperate climb to freedom from a place that had brought Porthos and d’Artagnan so much agony and terror.

Once at the top of the stairs, the men panted heavily, worn from exhaustion; they each had rivulets of sweat rolling down every surface of skin on their bodies. The pain in Aramis’ side flared and throbbed mercilessly, causing black dots to darken his vision. He leaned over at the waist, concentrating on slowing his breathing, until the dizziness passed.

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked with concern. “It seems we’re not the only ones in bad shape. What happened to you?”

“Long story, I’ll tell you later.” Aramis feigned a smile. “Let’s get outside and mount up; I’m ready to get out of here.”

Athos leaned over yet again as he endured another hacking cough, spitting out the phlegm onto the floor. “Agreed, let’s get the hell away from here,” he rasped.

The group made it to the double doors, practically stumbling out of the château with one last burst of renewed energy. The Musketeers were determined to escape the evil horrors lurking within the stone structure and couldn't get away fast enough.

Aramis first helped d’Artagnan onto his own horse before circling back to help boost Porthos into the saddle of Athos’ horse; he then helped Athos climb into the saddle in front of Porthos. The medic pulled himself into the saddle, settling in front of d’Artagnan. The duo turned then headed away from the château without waiting for the others. 

“Let’s get away from here,” Athos voiced as he gently kicked the horse into motion. Porthos grabbed the lieutenant around the waist to keep from falling as they turned down the long path toward the road. At last, the group of four brothers left the château of horrors behind them, without ever looking back.

Once again the Musketeers were on the road toward Blois, the assigned destination given them to deliver a letter from the king. How did things go so terribly wrong?

*****

The ride west to Blois was quiet. No one was in the mood for conversation after the experience at the château; each were lost in their own private thoughts and personal suffering.

D’Artagnan rested his head on Aramis’ shoulder and quickly fell asleep; the medic smiled as he listened to the steady breathing of the sleeping Gascon behind him. The marksman’s smiles turned to sorrow when he thought of how long his young brother had been unable to sleep without fear of torture always before him.

Porthos rode leaning his forehead against Athos’ back, almost instantly falling asleep in said position. The injured man cradled his arm against his chest to slow the bleeding that had now soaked the handkerchief and smeared the front of his leather doublet.

Suddenly, Athos sat up straight as he observed a group of horsemen racing toward them from the west. Aramis also noticed the group then glanced down at his sword, but it was partially covered by d’Artagnan’s leg. “We’re in no condition to fight anyone.” Aramis warned as he watched Athos with Porthos sleeping behind him. 

Regardless of personal condition, both Musketeers were prepared to fight—to the death, if necessary—in order to protect their wounded brothers.

As the riders drew nearer, Athos let out his tensed breath and rode ahead as he recognized the captain and his group of Musketeers approaching.

“Athos, thank God,” Captain Tréville exclaimed, awash with relief. "We just came from Château de Blois looking for Porthos and d’Artagnan; we were told they never arrived so we turned around to begin a new search.”

“Captain, I’m sorry. . .” Porthos paused as his voice caught. 

“Captain, we just rescued them from the worst possible hell you can imagine back there!” Aramis motioned with his hand, pointing behind their location.

“My God, Porthos and d’Artagnan, are you two alright?” Tréville was stunned as he looked over his bruised and beaten Musketeers.

“We’re alive, Captain,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Yes, I can see that you are—thank God.” The captain let his head hang for a moment as he closed his eyes. “We can go over the details of what happened when you both are feeling better,” he said, looking up at the men with sympathy. “But I have to ask, gentlemen, where is the letter?”

“It’s safe,” Porthos answered. The large Musketeer didn't bother looking up from his place behind Athos, his head continued to rest against his friend’s back. 

“Safe where, son?” Captain Tréville asked hesitatingly.

“Safe, righ’ where you told me to pu’ it,” Porthos answered cryptically.

“Seriously, Porthos?” D’Artagnan lost his temper. “Are you still going to keep that damn secret hidden from me even with the captain here and the raiders dead?”

“I kep’ the location of the letter secret to protect you, so you wouldn’t have to lie,” Porthos explained.

“Really?” D’Artagnan snapped in disbelief. “Or were you afraid that I would break and tell them where it was?” he yelled.

“You’ve go’ a lo’ of nerve accusing me of such a thing!” Porthos growled back, raising his head as his posture tensed.

“That’s enough!” Captain Tréville shouted. _“I_ told Porthos where to hide the letter and that he was to tell _no one_ —not even you, d’Artagnan—where it was located in light of the possibility of being captured.” The captain attempted to soothe the rising tempers.

“Well, we’re safe now and yet you still don’t trust me!” D’Artagnan glowered at Porthos.

“The letter is _not_ safe until delivered into the hands of the king’s appointed recipient,” Tréville countered. “Until then, it will remain hidden. There will be nothing more spoken of it until we safely reach the château.”

Athos’ head drooped forward as he attempted to suppress a cough bubbling up from his chest; his breath came out as wheezing rasps. “Oh God,” he groaned as his congested chest ached. The Musketeer swayed in the saddle, had it not been for Porthos hanging on to him, he would have fallen to the ground.

“Captain, we need to get to the château,” Aramis said with a sense of urgency. “They all need medical care—and quickly.” The medic sat upright as pain flashed through his ribs, causing him to wince and grimace. 

“From the looks of it, you need a physician as well, Aramis,” the captain surmised. “You men don’t need to remain doubled together on one horse; we can free up two more horses so you can each ride separately.”

“No,” Porthos protested. “I canno’ move again; I won’t make it.”

“I don’t want to move again either, Captain” D’Artagnan objected as he laid his head back on Aramis’ shoulder then closed his tired eyes.

“Alright, it’s not that far until we reach Blois,” the captain relented. “Just try to hang on for a little while longer.”

The group rode together at a quick pace, but not so fast that it jeopardized the wounded men. The captain anxiously watched the four men, plainly observing that his Musketeers were waning and would not be able to remain in the saddle much longer.

The longer the trip to Blois took, the more Athos had to be supported in the saddle by Porthos; the larger man was now keeping a tight hold on his friend. The Musketeer lieutenant was barely hanging on to consciousness; he fought to stay awake by focusing on the passing scenery. Sweat poured from Athos’ brow and ran into his eyes, but he lacked the strength to even wipe away the stinging drops.

Aramis kept a worried eye on his friends, certain both might tumble from their horse any moment. He was amazed at the devotion of Porthos as he clung to Athos from behind; he held his brother in place and kept him from falling over, despite his own wounds. 

The medic smiled with wonder. After everything Porthos went through at the château, despite the terrible wounds he received from the torture, he still somehow found the strength to help his brother in need.

Finally, when the wounded Musketeers feared they couldn't stay in the saddle any longer, they arrived in Blois and soon approached the ornate red brick and stone château. The group of Musketeers rode through the arched entryway to the inner courtyard, instantly alarming the guards.

“I am Captain Tréville of the King’s Musketeers and these are my men,” the captain introduced himself with authority. “We are here on official business; I also have wounded men who need a physician immediately.” 

Two guards ran inside to inform Monsieur Fontaine, Steward of Château de Blois, in the absence of the Duke of Orléans, of the arrival of the King’s Musketeers and to request immediate medical assistance.

Two of the Musketeers, Therron and Vallois, dismounted to assist Porthos from the saddle as René and Marceau jumped down to help Athos. 

“No wait, don’t. . .” Aramis tried to warn Therron and Vallois, but was too late.

As Porthos was pulled from the horse on one side, Athos slumped over the other side; he fell to the ground in an unconscious heap before René and Marceau could catch him. 

Aramis instinctively moved to help the fallen Musketeer, only to have d’Artagnan slump over and begin falling from the horse, unconscious. The Gascon fell, not to the ground, but into the ready arms of Captain Tréville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Château Royal de Blois_ is located in the center of the city of Blois. It was the residence of seven French kings and ten queens. It was the place where Joan of Arc went in 1429 to be blessed by the Archbishop of Reims before departing with her army to drive the English from Orléans.
> 
> It became the favorite royal residence and the political capital of the kingdom under King Louis XII. The king initiated a reconstruction of the main block of the entry and the creation of an Italian garden. This wing, of red brick and grey stone, forms the main entrance to the château, and features a statue of the mounted king above the entrance.
> 
> The château has 564 rooms, 75 staircases and has a fireplace in every room; and has 100 bedrooms. In 1626, King Louis XIII gave the Château of Blois to his brother, Gaston duc d’Orléans as a wedding gift.
> 
> Today, the “Royal Castle of Blois” is now a museum with over 30,000 pieces of art in the Francis I wing; and it also houses the Museum of Fine Arts housed in the Louis XII wing.


	12. Village Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would like Aramis to assist the doctor until our own physicians arrive—if he’s up to the task?” Captain Tréville looked to the medic.  
> “I’ll do it, Captain,” Aramis agreed. “I wouldn’t trust my brother’s care to some unknown, unskilled village doctor; I’ll be alright.”

Porthos gasped in pain when his fellow Musketeers removed him from the horse. White-hot agony flashed through his lower chest at being manhandled before he suddenly went limp in his rescuers arms.

“I am Eriq Fontaine, Steward of Château de Blois,” the steward announced as he approached the group of Musketeers. The man snapped his fingers, ordering the servants to help get the wounded men inside. “Take the wounded men upstairs to the bedchambers on the second floor; I will call for the physician.”

Aramis knelt beside Athos lying unmoving on the ground. He gently turned him onto his back, cursing at the blood-soaked handkerchief and the smearing of blood across the front of his doublet from the injured arm.

The marksman instantly went into medic mode; he peeled back the bandage from the wounded arm just as Marceau approached to carry Athos inside for treatment. “I’ll take good care of him, Aramis, I promise,” the Musketeer assured when the medic wouldn’t let go of his friend.

“You need to let him go, son,” Captain Tréville urged. “Marceau has to get him inside now. . . Aramis?”

Aramis released his hold and nodded to the Musketeer as the burly man scooped Athos into his arms then carried him away. The medic tried to stand but fell to his hands and knees as his ribs shifted.

Aramis’ head drooped as he tried to choke back the gasp of pain. He rocked forward with his hands on his knees then straightened upright, hoping it would take the pressure off his ribs. His shaking hand cradled the injured ribs as though trying to seep the pain from his chest into his fingers.

Captain Tréville knelt beside Aramis and put a hand gently on his shoulder. "Are you alright, what happened?” he asked. “You were supposed to be on leave in Orléans with Cécile.”

“So many questions, Captain,” Aramis chuckled lightly, wincing at the pain it caused. “Now you sound like me,” he scrunched his eyes closed tightly against the pain throbbing in his chest.

“Are you able to walk on your own?” The captain looked around to see that all the wounded were inside now but the medic.

Aramis nodded but found that he couldn't rise. Captain Tréville and René each took an arm and lifted the medic to his feet; the trio slowly made their way to the second floor of the château.

It was a long, slow trek upstairs to the bedchamber where the Musketeers were directed to sit Aramis down on the edge of a large bed. The marksman's face glistened with sweat; droplets ran down his forehead, plastering his hair to his sticky face. “Where are the others?” he wearily asked Tréville.

“I’ll go check on them,” the captain replied. “Stay with him, René; I’ll be right back.”

Tréville wandered down the hall and came to the room with Athos lying unconscious on a large bed, his torn and bloody left arm hung limply over the edge. The captain froze in his tracks as he watched the blood drip from his Musketeer’s fingertips to the floor. "Oh, Athos. . .”

Turning to the doorway, the steward smiled reassuringly. "We will take good care of him, Captain.”

Captain Tréville nodded then turned to continue his search for Porthos and d’Artagnan in the remaining rooms of the left wing but found them empty. Turning back the other direction, the captain began checking the rooms in the right wing; he grew increasingly more anxious when he couldn’t find his Musketeers.

Finally, Tréville heard voices and walked into the room to find d’Artagnan lying motionless on the bed as two servants removed his boots and weapons. “Oh no, I need to find Porthos,” the captain said as he left in search of the large Musketeer.

Across the hall he found the wounded Musketeer: he breathed a sigh of relief after he spotted Porthos’ boots neatly stacked together on the floor beside his clothing and weapons. The captain retrieved the right boot then put his hand down inside, feeling around for the loose leather edge of the insole.

Lifting the still-warm leather insole, his fingers found the envelope; the captain closed his eyes as a flood of relief washed over him. He fell into the chair beside him with the boot still in his grasp. “Thank God,” he muttered under his breath.

“Captain, I am afraid the château physician is away with Duke Gaston and is not available,” Steward Fontaine announced at the doorway. “I have sent for a nearby physician, but it may be a while longer before your men get the necessary treatment. Our chamber maids are skilled nurses and can tend to your men until the physician arrives, if this is satisfactory?”

“Yes, it will do in the meantime,” Captain Tréville nodded. “However, Porthos will be requiring surgery, as will Athos on his arm, and d’Artagnan on his shoulder. Is this other physician skilled in surgery?”

“I am not so certain of his surgical skills, Captain,” Steward Fontaine answered honestly.

“Very well, thank you,” the captain nodded, disappointed at the news. His men needed a surgeon, not a village doctor who may—or may not—know what he was doing. _This isn’t acceptable at all. I better go see Aramis and let him know._

Captain Treville removed the letter from Porthos’ boot and tucked it safely inside a pocket of his doublet before heading back to the left wing to inform Aramis of the grim news.

*****

“I’m afraid the news isn’t good right now,” the captain reported to Aramis as he sat at his bedside.

“What’s wrong?” the medic asked, his eyes growing wide with worry. "Has something happened to one of my brothers?”

“No, nothing has changed with their condition,” Tréveille replied. “The château’s physician is away with the duke; Steward Fontaine sent for the village physician, but it doesn’t sound like he’s a skilled surgeon.”

“Dammit, they need a surgeon, Captain,” the medic groaned. “What are we going to do?”

“The steward said the chamber maids are skilled nurses. . .”

“They need more than just a nurse, especially Porthos,” the medic interrupted with a frown. Aramis suddenly snapped his fingers as a thought came to mind. “Captain, can you call for the steward? I have an idea.”

The captain later returned with Steward Fontaine. “Monsieur Aramis, you requested to see me, what may I do for you?”

“Steward Fontaine, do you have a trusted messenger or courier?”

“Yes, of course,” answered the steward. “Our messenger, Luc, is trusted with the duke’s personal correspondence.”

“Do you think Luc can deliver a message from me to a nurse in Orléans?” Aramis inquired. “This nurse knows two very skilled surgeons who might be able to help—if they are available to come.”

“Why yes, I will have Luc deliver the message for you as soon as it is ready,” Steward Fontaine offered.

“Considering how late it is already, will Luc be able to stay overnight in Orléans and return tomorrow?” Aramis asked. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Seeing that the surgeons will not be coming until tomorrow, I would like Aramis to assist the doctor until our own physicians arrive—if he’s up to the task?” Captain Tréville looked to the medic.

“I’ll do it, Captain,” Aramis agreed. “I wouldn’t trust my brother’s care to some unknown, unskilled village doctor; I’ll be alright.”

“Is this arrangement agreeable to you, Steward Fontaine?” Captain Tréville asked.

“Of course, Captain,” Steward Fontaine agreed. “These are your men; I understand your concern for their welfare.”

“We should be able to patch up d’Artagnan’s shoulder well enough to hold him over until the doctors arrive tomorrow,” Aramis informed the captain. “I’ll have to take a better look at Athos’ arm to check the damage before I can determine anything further. However, Captain, I know that I lack the skills required to help Porthos with his chest wound.”

“We’ll do the best we can, Aramis, until the doctors arrive.” Captain Tréville clapped his medic on the shoulder reassuringly.

“I’ll send for my messenger right away while you prepare the letter.” Steward Fontaine turned, then left the room.

Aramis began writing the letter to Cécile explaining their dire situation with three wounded Musketeers with no skilled physician to help. “I just pray to God one or both doctors can come here tomorrow, or we’re in trouble,” the medic said grimly as he handed the letter to his captain.

“Are you sure you’re well enough to work on the others, Aramis?” Tréville asked, carefully observing his medic. “I know you are hurt; not getting _yourself_ tended to will only worsen your condition.”

“I understand, Captain, but they need me right now.” Aramis dismissed the captain’s concern. “Besides, Cécile already tended to me earlier in Orléans.”

“You still have to explain to me what happened and how you ended up with Athos—though it can wait for now.” The captain cut off the conversation and helped Aramis to his feet at the announcement of the village doctor’s arrival.

“Please, Captain, make sure the messenger gets that letter,” Aramis sighed. “I’ll go see if this village doctor is any good.”

*****

The first patient the physician and Aramis visited together was Porthos, as his condition was the most serious. “Nurse, I want you to get the ointments out from my bag, as well as the bandages, salve, needle and thread,” the doctor instructed one chamber maid. “Mademoiselle,” he instructed another, “if you wouldn’t mind, we need clean cloths and towels, and plenty of hot and cold water.” 

“I will have the servants bring the water.” Steward Fontaine nodded as he left to fetch the servants.

“So, I am told that you are the regimental medic for the Musketeers,” the doctor glanced at Aramis. “Are you skilled in stitching and treating serious wounds?”

“Yes to both questions, doctor,” Aramis replied. “I have had my share of tending to wounded Musketeers with varying injuries, from very routine to very serious.”

“Very well, you will be my assistant,” the doctor nodded. “I hear there are two more men besides this one who need attention?”

“Yes, d’Artagnan and Athos.”

“Tell me, briefly, about their injuries,” the doctor requested. 

“Well, d’Artagnan was with Porthos.” Aramis motioned with his head to the large Musketeer on the bed. “They were both severely tortured and they each have multiple lacerations over their torsos from being whipped. They were both found being stretched on the rack when we rescued them; I didn’t find any breaks or dislocated joints in their arms or legs though. D’Artagnan has a gunshot wound to his right shoulder—in and out, clean—but it hasn’t been treated since it happened. Plus, he has shallow knife cuts to his torso and shoulder.

“And Athos?”

“His left arm was shredded with a torture device, a cat’s paw.” Aramis shook his head with disgust. “He also has a severe cough; he’s developing bronchitis. . .” 

“And how do you come to this conclusion?” the doctor interrupted. “Since you are not a doctor.”

Aramis was stunned at the rudeness of the doctor; he took a moment to breathe deeply before answering. “Athos suffered from a serious case of catarrh during the outbreak in Paris recently. The physician who treated him said that his lungs were probably scarred and he would most likely develop future bronchial infections. He also said that his stubborn cough could last for weeks, and if he wasn’t careful, the cough could mutate into bronchitis or possibly pneumonia.”

“Well, we have ways of treating the cough, if necessary,” the doctor said, appearing unconcerned. “The injury to the arm may be more severe than I can mend, if a cat’s paw that was used on him. Those devices have a tendency to tear ligaments, tendons and muscle; I cannot mend that kind of injury. He will probably require amputation.”

“What? The hell you say!” Aramis exclaimed in horror. “You haven’t even _looked_ at his arm and you’re already talking amputation?”

“For severe injuries—as will occur with the cat’s paw—amputation is always the easiest and quickest treatment, if it means saving his life. A man can live without an arm.”

Aramis released a huff of breath, thoroughly appalled at the doctor’s flippant attitude. “You don’t know Athos,” he muttered. “Being a Musketeer is everything to him and to lose that. . . well, he’d rather die.”

“Well, he just might get his wish if the injury is severe enough to warrant amputation and we don’t do it,” the doctor shrugged.

Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. _God help me and give me strength; I want to strangle this doctor with my bare hands. Molyneux and Berteau cannot get here fast enough._ The doctor’s apparent lack of bedside manner nauseated the medic.

“Let us focus on tending to this man before we worry about the others, shall we?”

“Yes, I agree, doctor,” Aramis replied, trying to maintain his temper.

The servants and nurses arrived with the medical supplies requested, filling the room with activity. Everything was on hand to begin treatment on Porthos so the healing duo began treatment, though not very cooperatively.

“He has a deep laceration on the back of his head,” the doctor observed. “It appears he was hit with a hard object, probably has a concussion. It may be too late to try to stitch up the wound.”

“We can still try. . .”

The doctor ignored Aramis and continued his examination. “It also appears that he may have a cracked rib here, just above where the stab wound is located,” the doctor said as he felt along the ribs with his fingers. “It is possible the knife glanced off a rib and therefore he has no severe internal injury.” 

_Well, that’s got to be the most ignorant thing I’ve heard the doctor say yet. Where did they find this doctor?_ Aramis shook his head with disagreement. “Perhaps, but Porthos was complaining of pain between his shoulder blades, which is a sign of damage to his diaphragm.”

“Are you the doctor or am I?” the physician snapped, causing everyone in the room to stare in shock.

“Doctor, if we are going to work together you have to accept my input, whether you like it or not. I know the medical history of each of these patients; I know their specific injuries, symptoms and how they received their wounds. So, please give me some credit,” Aramis snapped.

“Fine, if credit is deserved,” he deadpanned, “but we shall see.” 

Aramis held his tongue. In fact, he was biting his tongue to keep from lashing out at that insulting comment; this was not the time or place to argue. The medic swallowed his pride and focused solely on helping his friend-- though inside he was furious.

The doctor continued with his examination on Porthos, ignoring Aramis. “It looks like none of these cuts are infected, which is very good. I will apply a salve mixture of chamomile and juniper for the cuts which will help prevent infection and aid in healing.”

For several long minutes Aramis and the doctor tended to their ministrations on Porthos in relative silence. Aramis was still fuming at what the doctor insinuated about him. _What an arrogant arse—how dare he!_

The two healers worked separately, keeping out of each other’s way, as each cleaned, stitched and applied salve over the large Musketeer’s wounds. Together, they treated the superficial wounds but the doctor deliberately side stepped the more serious wound to the chest. 

“Alright, we are done here,” the doctor said. The older man walked away to pack his supplies in his medical bag. “We need to move on to the next patient; the nurses can tend to the bandages.

“But. . . we are _not_ done here,” Aramis protested. The medic was stunned, almost speechless.

“We’ve done everything that can be done for him,” the doctor said as he left the room. 

“This is _not_ right,” Aramis shook his head angrily. Having no choice, the medic followed behind the doctor to d’Artagnan’s room; he winced as the pain in his ribs flared again.

*****

Upon examining d’Artagnan’s wound, the doctor shook his head. “Yes, I see the similarities of the injuries,” the older man stated as he stared at the Gascon’s torso. “Ah, yes, I see the gunshot wound.” The doctor partially rolled the patient to get a better look at the exit wound. “It is a clean shot; there should be no permanent damage to the shoulder.”

“We need to stitch up the wounds to his shoulder, both the gunshot and the stab wound,” Aramis stated. The Musketeer was not taking any further chances with this doctor’s rush to finish.

“If you feel the need to stitch him up, you may do so.”

Aramis opened his mouth to protest but quickly shut it again. _Where did the steward dig up this guy?_

“While you stitch his wound, I will tend to these smaller lacerations and cuts,” the doctor added.

“D’Artagnan has a gash that needs stitching here on his temple also, doctor”

“Yes, you can take care of that as well,” he replied dryly. The doctor continued tending to the many lacerations on d’Artagnan’s skin, washing each cut with wine. 

Aramis took a deep breath to calm his nerves before beginning the tedious work on the shoulder wound, washing it thoroughly with brandy. The medic was glad d’Artagnan was already unconscious so he could scrub the wound clean without worry of severely hurting the young man. _I hope infection doesn’t set in like it did with Athos in Chamarande. Wouldn’t you figure, just like Athos, d’Artagnan also has a shoulder wound._

Aramis asked for a nurse to assist him as he began the finely detailed stitching of the ragged shoulder wound. He worked carefully and precisely, placing the stitches close together to promote faster healing and with less scarring. “Pull the skin together tightly and hold,” the medic instructed the nurse as he continued pulling the needle and thread through the jagged edges.

Once finished with the gunshot wound, Aramis began stitching up the knife wound. The shallower knife wound was easier and faster to mend as the wound had clean, even edges from a sharp blade. Finally, Aramis stitched up the gash on d’Artagnan’s temple; he winced at the thought of his friend getting bashed in the head. _He was probably backhanded with a pistol._

“We need to turn him over so I can stitch up his back,” Aramis stated as he wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. The medic stretched his back, wincing as sudden pain lanced through his chest. “Damn,” his breath hissed noisily through clenched teeth.

Aramis waited—all the while being ignored—for the doctor to finish so they could turn the Gascon onto his stomach and begin treating his back. At the sight of d’Artagnan’s tortured back, the nurses gasped with shock then burst into tears. 

The two healers ignored the gasps as they began their ministrations to the terribly damaged back without further conversation for the next hour or more. While Aramis stitched the shoulder wound, the doctor tended to the angry lacerations criss-crossing over the skin on d’Artagnan’s back. 

“We will leave the rest of the application of salve and ointment, as well as bandaging the wounds, to the nurses,” the doctor informed the team. "Let us move on to the final patient.”

The medic shook his head at the doctor’s rush. “It would be a good idea to leave him on his stomach for now,” Aramis instructed the nurses. “Can you handle the remainder of the treatment without us?” 

“Yes, we’ll be fine,” a nurse replied. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of d’Artagnan and finish his treatment properly. You better go and catch up with the doctor before he throws a fit.”

“Have you worked with this doctor before?” Aramis asked with disgust. “Is he always this rushed with his patients?”

“I’ve worked with him before,” replied a pretty nurse with red hair. “Yes, he is always in a hurry to finish and get home. He doesn’t care about the patient; he just wants to collect the paycheck.”

“Medic, where are you?” the doctor bellowed from down the hall.

“Told you,” the first nurse chuckled. 

“Don’t let him get to you, Monsieur,” said the pretty redhead. “He’s like this with everyone, trust me.”

Aramis nodded then quickly ran after the village doctor, heading toward the final patient—Athos.

*****

The doctor picked up the Musketeer’s arm, causing Athos to moan in pain at the touch. He turned the arm one way and then the other, all the while nodding his head and muttering to himself. “These wounds are not as deep as the others I have seen from the same device.”

 _Is he disappointed at that fact?_ “Athos was wearing a leather doublet when he was injured.”

“Ah, that explains why the device did not shred his arm further. However, the muscle damage could be quite extensive nonetheless,” he reported dryly. “I would still highly recommend amputation.”

The Musketeer lieutenant stirred at hearing the doctor’s final prognosis and instantly began to panic. “No, don’t amputate my arm,” he pulled his arm away. “Aramis, help me; I need to get out of here.” Athos tried sitting up, but was held down by the doctor and Aramis.

“You’re not going anywhere, young man,” the doctor said as he fought against the Musketeer. “We need to take care of this arm.”

“Athos, stop fighting us,” the medic ordered loudly. “Athos, it’s Aramis, stop fighting. No one is amputating your arm—stop it!” Aramis shook his brother by the shoulders to break through the panic; as the Musketeer became more aware, the fighting became more intense.

Captain Tréville ran down the hall at hearing the commotion and hurried to the room to assist. “What can I do to help?”

“Captain, I can’t hold him down!” Aramis yelled as the wounded Musketeer struggled against the hands holding him. “Thanks to sawbones here mentioning amputating his arm, Athos is in a semi-conscious panic.”

“Athos, listen to me,” Captain Tréville whispered soothingly near the Musketeer’s ear. “Aramis is going to take care of your arm and stitch it up like new. I won’t let anyone amputate your arm, I promise; you need to stop fighting us and let us do our work.” Tréville stroked Athos’ hair and tenderly moved the sweat-soaked strands from his eyes.

“Athos, no one is going to take your arm, I promise you,” Aramis whispered to his friend.

“Don’t let him touch me!” Athos’ eyes shifted wildly from the captain to Aramis.

“Son, no one is cutting off your arm,” the captain reassured. “I’ll have Aramis take a look at it instead of the doctor, but only if you cooperate and let us do our work.” 

Athos looked from the captain to Aramis, then nodded. 

“Do you want something to dull the pain?” Aramis asked. “This is going to be painful, Athos; I would recommend taking some wine.”

“No,” Athos shook his head. “Just get on with it, dammit.” The Musketeer closed his eyes; he gritted his teeth and steeled himself in preparation for the coming agony.

“I am going to clean the wound first by washing it out with wine,” Aramis warned in Athos’ ear. “Are you ready?”

Athos nodded, without opening his eyes.

Aramis glanced at the captain and then the doctor before taking the bottle of brandy and pouring it liberally over the wound. The wine splashed over the arm and into a catching pail below as Tréville held tight to the Musketeer.

“Dammit… damn!” the Musketeer cursed, his breath hissing through his teeth. Athos gasped and writhed at the sudden onslaught of fire burning up and down his arm; he tried pulling free but the captain’s firm grip was too strong.

One more pass of the wine and Aramis began cleaning out the dirt with a sharp pair of pincers, causing Athos to scream out in pain. His chest heaved, triggering a coughing fit that erupted from deep within his chest. “Oh God, stop please . . .” Athos wheezed between coughs.

The panicked Musketeer attempted to roll onto his side to escape the flurry of arms holding him prisoner, but the strong hands held firm. The tense and writhing body suddenly went limp under the strong hands and he sagged as his head lolled to the side. Athos mercifully lost the fight to stay conscious and fell into blissful oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The diaphragm was recognized as a distinct anatomical structure in the earliest Greek writings. Homer, in the 9th century, describes, with astonishing precision, wounds suffered by Greeks and Trojans on the field of battle, using words which designate the respiratory and digestive system, larynx, trachea, bronchi, lungs, thorax, and diaphragm.
> 
> In 1579, _Ambroise Paré,_ made the first description of "diaphragmatic rupture," with a French artillery captain who had been shot eight months before his death from complications of the rupture. Using autopsies, Paré described diaphragmatic rupture in people who had suffered blunt and penetrating trauma. Reports of diaphragmatic herniation due to injury date back at least as far as the 17th century.
> 
> The diaphragm is a muscle across the bottom of the ribcage that plays a crucial role in respiration. If the diaphragm is damaged, patients often complain of pain between the shoulder blades. Signs and symptoms of damage include: chest and abdominal pain and difficulty breathing. When a tear is discovered, surgery is needed to repair it. Most modern-day diaphragm injuries occur due to stabbings, car accidents and gunshot wounds.
> 
> Between 50 and 80% of diaphragmatic ruptures occur on the left side. It is possible that the liver, which is situated in the right upper quadrant of the abdomen, cushions the diaphragm.


	13. Ice, Clocks, and Bloodletting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor’s heart beat wildly with excitement as he held the bowl catching blood pouring freely from Athos’ arm. _This isn’t so bad, how hard can the neck be? This is just practice, Athos. Next time, I’m going to bleed your neck, then everyone will see how great a doctor I really am!_

“Athos? Come on, Athos…” Aramis panicked as his hand quickly rushed to his friend’s neck desperately trying to find a pulse beating beneath his shaking fingers.

“Aramis?” Captain Tréville asked, his voice hinting at fear.

Aramis nodded, closing his eyes with relief as he let out a long sigh. "Thank God.”

“While he is unconscious, now would be the best time to amputate,” the doctor stated dryly.

“I will have the steward remove you from the premises if you even _mention_ amputating this man’s arm again,” Captain Tréville warned the doctor. 

“It is a procedure that is usually required with such an injury,” the doctor retorted.

“It’s because of your callous mention of the procedure that caused Athos to panic in the first place,” Aramis growled. “This is a human being, not an inanimate object to test your butchering skills on.” The medic was at his wits end and was unable to hold his tongue any longer. "If you weren't in such a damn hurry all the time but actually took the time to _care_ for your patient as a _person_. . ." 

“That’s enough, Aramis,” the captain interrupted. “Doctor, do your job and treat this man’s arm— _properly_ —or you can leave immediately.”

“Very well, I will see what can be done,” the doctor agreed.

“Can you handle things in here, Aramis?” Captain Tréville asked. “I’d like to go check on Porthos and d’Artagnan now.”

“Yes, I think so, Captain,” Aramis glanced skeptically at the doctor.

“Oh, your message is on the way; Luc left a little while ago,” the captain reported.

“Ah, that is good, Captain,” Aramis smiled. “Thank you.” The pleased expression on the medic's face morphed into a scowl as he returned to watching the doctor examine Athos. Aramis didn't trust this doctor at all so he was going to keep a very close eye on him.

The doctor put on his glasses to begin examining the arm more closely—and with more apparent empathy—when he paused, grimacing and shaking his head.

“What is it, doctor?” Aramis asked with concern.

“It appears there may be some small tears in the muscle,” the doctor wiped at his brow. “I am not skilled in surgery; it would be better if we wrapped the arm tightly and waited for the surgeons to tend to it tomorrow. Otherwise, if we simply sew the wound closed he could lose use of the arm.”

“Alright, doctor, but if we can get a hold of some ice to pack around the wound it will keep overnight better,” Aramis suggested. “At least, we can keep cold compresses on it.”

“Yes, that is a good idea,” the doctor agreed. “If you wouldn’t mind inquiring about the ice, I will begin binding the wound to hold it until tomorrow.”

The medic stood with raised eyebrows, stunned the argumentative doctor agreed with him for a change. “Alright, I’ll be back shortly.” Aramis watched the doctor as he and a nurse began rolling strips of bandages tightly around the arm, tying the edges together with firm knots.

Aramis searched for the steward to inquire about the availability of ice at the château. Steward Fontaine led Aramis to a cold storage room in the basement where several chunks of ice were kept in clay pots on the stone floor. The medic looked around the room in amazement. “I don’t believe this,” he huffed.

“Duke Gaston enjoys his iced drinks,” the steward smiled. “Being the king’s brother does include some privileges.”

“Indeed it does,” Aramis agreed. He used the ice pick to break off several large chunks of ice then placed them in a bowl. “We can’t apply too much ice; just enough to keep the wound chilled,” he voiced. The duo turned to leave when Aramis paused to look back at the ice. Deep in thought, his fingers ran absently through his beard. "I wonder how well ice would go with wine... or ale?" he raised his eyebrows questioningly at the steward.

"No." Steward Fontaine shook his head, frowning with disapproval.

"No?" Aramis repeated, his eyes shifting from the steward to the ice. "Hmm, maybe you're right," the medic shrugged as he turned on his heel to leave. 

The steward showed the way back to the room where Aramis began wrapping pieces of ice in a cloth while the doctor watched. The medic put the iced-filled cloth to Athos’ arm; he then wrapped it with another cloth to hold it in place. “There, that should do it—until it melts, anyway,” he scratched his head, perplexed.

“How long are you going to leave the ice on his arm?” the nurse asked, as if reading Aramis’ mind.

“Well, I don’t want the ice to melt and soak the bandage,” Aramis replied. The medic's brow creased as his mind worked on a viable solution. “I need to time how long it takes for the ice to begin melting,” he looked around the room. “Do you have an hourglass I can keep time with?”

“Of course,” answered the nurse. “But I can do better than an hourglass. Duke Gaston keeps a table clock in his office; I’ll go get it.” 

“Rank and wealth really does have its privileges,” Aramis muttered out loud. “I wish we had these extraordinary conveniences back home; it would certainly make our life easier.”

*****

Once Aramis got the timing down of the melting ice he decided to check on his two brothers. He left detailed instructions with the nurse to remove the ice at the required time. “Please, don’t let the ice melt and get the cloths soggy, or you will have to replace the bandage,” Aramis smiled.

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget,” the nurse returned the smile.

The medic entered into Porthos’ room to find his friend awake. “How are you feeling?” Aramis asked as he sat beside the bed. 

“A lit’le sore,” Porthos smiled weakly. “How’s Athos and d’Aratagnan?”

“D’Artagnan is doing as well as can be expected,” he replied. “I stitched up his shoulder a while ago; it should heal well, as long as it doesn’t get infected. I’ll have to keep a close eye on it, of course.” 

“And… Athos?” Porthos asked with hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

“His arm may have some muscle damage and the doctor—whatever his name is—couldn’t get past any treatment, other than amputation. At the mention of amputation, it sent Athos into a panic, which then resulted in quite a struggle.”

“Bloody hell,” the larger man exclaimed, wide eyed. “Is Athos goin’ to lose his arm,’Mis?”

“No,” Aramis huffed, shaking his head at the memory. “The captain and I wouldn’t dare to allow that man to touch Athos' arm, not like that. I’ve sent for doctors Berteau and Molyneux—hopefully they can come tomorrow and take care of Athos properly.”

“Wha’ about you, ‘Mis?” 

“I’m fine,” the medic replied before quickly changing the subject. “I am surprised at how clean both yours and d’Artagnan’s wounds were, considering the dirty conditions of that dungeon. Why is that?”

Porthos shook his head then turned away from Aramis.

“Hey, Porthos, don’t do this.” Aramis turned his friend’s face back toward him. “Don’t shut me out. Please, talk to me. I can take better care of you and d’Artagnan if I know what happened and understand what you went through in that place.” 

“They used water torture on me,” Porthos’ voice whispered. “Then the second time I was whipped, they splashed some kind of a salty mixture on me—burned like hell.”

“Aw, Porthos,” Aramis shook his head. “My God, they used water torture on you?” the medic’s eyes were wide as saucers. “I’ve heard stories about them nearly drowning people on tables, is that what they did to you?”

Porthos nodded quietly.

Aramis choked back a sob. With a hand covering his mouth, he turned away to hide the tears filling his eyes and spilling over onto his cheeks. _The hell they both endured in that place, I can’t even fathom._ The medic pounded on his knee with a fist… again and again.

“Aramis, it’s over,” Porthos whispered, not wanting his friend to worry. “They’re dead. . . and I’m bloody glad,” he growled. “We made it, thanks to you and Athos. So that’s it, ‘Mis, it’s over.”

“That’s it, it’s over? Is that all you have to say, after everything you went through?” Aramis carefully thought about what to say next. “Porthos, you can talk to me about anything—even this,” he implored. “I’m not going to press it right now, but don’t keep it bottled up inside where it will fester and one day explode. It will haunt your dreams if you try burying it and pretending it never happened, trust me.”

“Yes, ‘Mis, I know. . .”

“We’ve all been through hell recently, starting with that damn mission with the decoy; it just keeps getting piled on. . .” Aramis winced as the pain in his ribs flared, nearly doubling him over.

“Aramis, are you okay?” Porthos tried to roll toward the medic but was stopped as pain under his ribs stabbed through his chest like a knife, stealing his breath away. _Damn, it feels like I keep getting stabbed over and over again with that knife. Why in the hell did Henri stab me? Damn him, why?_

“Don’t worry. . . about me, dammit, Porthos,” Aramis scolded. He grimaced, but endured the pain in his ribs. “Just lie still and don’t agitate that chest wound. The doctors won’t be here until tomorrow-- that is _if_ they’re coming,” he muttered under his breath.

“You haven’t told me wha’ hap’nd to you, ‘Mis,” Porthos gazed at the marksman with concern.

“I ran into some highwaymen looking to make it rich off me,” he huffed. “Sorry to disappoint,” the medic winced at the memory.

“How did you manage to fight ‘em off?”

“That’s the beauty of such perfect timing!” Aramis wagged his index finger at Porthos. “God’s intervention—fate, or whatever you want to call it—stepped in when Athos happened to be riding by and found me. What are the chances, huh?” 

“Athos shouldn’t have been on the road; and you were on vacation,” Porthos narrowed his eyes. “So how did you both know to come lookin’ for us?” 

“Call it ‘brotherly intuition'.” Aramis suddenly doubled over, trying to stifle the painful cough rising from his lungs. He covered his mouth with his fist as he coughed, then wiped at the corners after the fit had passed. “Oh no,” the medic moaned. He pulled his fist away to find bloody sputum bubbled on his fingers. 

“Aramis, what’s wrong?” Porthos asked, having heard the alarm in his friend’s voice.

“Nothing, Porthos, it’s just a cough,” Aramis lied. “I need to go check on d’Artagnan and then get back to Athos.” He carefully pushed himself out of the chair, trying not to jostle his ribs any further.

“Aramis, dammit, what are you hiding from me?” 

“Nothing, I need to go,” Aramis lied again as he made for a quick exit.

“Dammit to hell, ‘Mis!” Porthos growled. “You just scolded me for not talkin’ to you ‘bout my feelings. Now, what is wrong?”

“I’ll stop by again later,” Aramis called from the door before ducking into the hallway.

“If I could get up out of this bed, I would wring his neck!” Porthos fumed.

Aramis felt bad for leaving Porthos like that. As a medic, he knew that if his broken ribs had shifted they could puncture a lung—which would then lead to a collapsed lung. He knew the symptoms of a punctured lung included bloody sputum and difficulty breathing. _Since I can still breathe perfectly fine, I believe the bloody sputum may indicate a tear rather than a puncture wound, for now._ “I can’t worry Porthos about me; he has enough to worry about with himself.”

The medic knew that he must inform either Molyneux or Berteau tomorrow, or else his broken ribs would cause serious damage. He knew all too well that he should get off his feet and take care of himself, but how could he? His brothers were injured and they needed his care. The only doctor they had, for the time being, was questionable, at best. No, his own care would have to wait.

Aramis walked into d’Artagnan’s room to find the physician tending to him as a nurse wiped the young Gascon’s brow with a cool cloth. “What’s going on? I just left d’Artagnan a few hours ago and he was fine—what’s happened?”

“He is beginning to show signs of infection,” the doctor reported. “The infection probably began working on him a while ago but didn’t show any signs until after the surgery. I am mixing a poultice of juniper leaves to apply to the shoulder area and it should help pull out the infection.”

“Yes, that is a good idea, doctor,” Aramis complemented. “Wait, I have some herbs in my saddlebag we can add to the juniper—the extra herb mixture will help draw out the infection better than just the juniper alone. 

Once Aramis fetched his medical bag with the medicines Cécile packed, the medic mixed a poultice of juniper leaves, marshmallow root, and witch hazel; he hoped the mixture would begin pulling the infection from d’Artagnan’s wound immediately.

The young Gascon moaned and tossed his head side to side, as Aramis applied the cold poultice; he spread the mixture across his shoulder, especially over the wound. D’Artagnan arched his back and tried to pull away from the ministrations, but the nurses held him in place.

Once the poultice was applied, the medic wrapped the wound and covered the shoulder to keep the healing ointment covering the skin. “Let’s pray this poultice works at removing the infection before it gets any worse,” Aramis voiced his thoughts. _If it gets any worse, we could have a repeat of Chamarande._

The severe suffering Athos endured from the infection and deadly septic poisoning flowing through his veins had nearly cost his friend his life. It was probably the single most stressful and extremely close call Aramis could ever remember. But then there was that dream…

 _God please, how can I go through that awful experience again, except now with d’Artagnan? Wasn’t Athos enough? I can’t deal with this a second time._ The marksman’s blood turned cold at the memories of Athos struggling to hang on-- struggling to live— all the while wishing his friends would just let him go peacefully.

“I can’t go through that again,” Aramis said to d’Artagnan, squeezing his hand softly. “You need to fight this infection, my young brother. After the hell you went through in that dungeon and the torture they put you through, you have more than proven yourself to be brave and tough. You endured torment that would have broken men bigger and stronger than you, but you didn’t break; you held on. . .” the medic paused as he choked back a sob.

“You survived brutal torture at the hands of monsters,” Aramis wiped away his tears. “Don’t let this little bug beat you; do you hear me little brother?” Suddenly, the medic was stricken with a wave of agonizing pain shooting through his chest as he tried to inhale. He sat back in his chair then straightened his body; he tilted his head back as he tried to breathe through the pain. 

“Aramis, are you alright?” The doctor asked, seeing the medic was in obvious distress. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” the medic lied once again. “I need to get back to Athos’ room.” 

“You really should rest, Aramis,” the doctor advised. “You do not look well.”

“There is a large chair in Athos’ room that looks comfortable.” Aramis winced as another burst of pain shot through his chest. “The chair should keep me sitting up straight; I’ll go rest there for a while,” he whispered, attempting to get up. 

“Here, let me help you,” the doctor offered his hand. 

The doctor raised the medic to his feet then proceeded to help Aramis slowly shuffle down the hallway to Athos’ room. 

From the hallway, they could hear the hacking coughs of the Musketeer. Aramis forgot about his pain and rushed to Athos’ bedside to find him lying in the fetal position, struggling to breathe. “I c-can’t go through this ag-again, ‘Mis,” Athos wheezed. “P-please just knock me out.”

“Athos, I know this is hard but please try to be strong.” Aramis pounded in circles on Athos’ back to loosen the congestion in his lungs. “You’ve done this before and you can do it again.”

“Yes, I’ve d-done this b-before. . . which is why. . . I know I c-can’t g-go through it again,” Athos contended. “‘Mis, I can’t do it again. . .” Athos coughed, doubling himself into a ball.

I have some laudanum that will help him sleep, I’ll be right back.” The doctor left the room to go fetch the medicine.

“Athos, are you sure that you want to take laudanum?” Aramis questioned. “Remember your reaction to the drug before?” 

The Musketeer could only nod as he unleashed a series of wet, hacking coughs that clogged his throat with phlegm from his lungs.

Aramis grabbed a napkin and held it under Athos’ mouth, “spit,” he ordered. The medic waited patiently for the Musketeer to finish before throwing the napkin into an empty basin. “Feel better now?”

Athos nodded, closing his eyes as he concentrated on breathing slowly. His eyes flew open again when the doctor returned; he ordered the Musketeer to sit up so he could drink water with the medicine stirred in. The Musketeer drank the water then fell against the pillows, completely exhausted.

“The laudanum will help you sleep and it will help ease your breathing.” The doctor smiled at Athos as he and Aramis piled the pillows up to keep him elevated. Soon, the Musketeer’s eyes drooped as they became more difficult to keep open, until finally he drifted off to sleep. 

“You need to get some rest too while Athos sleeps,” the doctor said. The older man pulled an oversized chair to the bed then ordered Aramis to sit down. He then fetched a blanket and draped it over the medic’s lap. “Now, go to sleep,” he said. “I will keep an eye on Athos.”

“I really should stay awake in case he needs me.” Aramis protested but he just couldn’t stay awake. The medic turned his head into the tall wing of the chair and closed his eyes; he fell asleep almost instantly.

The doctor smiled and then turned to the sick Musketeer on the bed. _At last, while everyone sleeps, I will finally have the opportunity to prove my skills as a doctor. Everyone will praise me for healing you from your cough and, since you are a King’s Musketeer, the reward for healing you should be quite handsome._

The doctor set his medical bag on the table and began pulling out his lancet, tourniquet, measuring bowls and towels. _The left arm would have been the most convenient, but it is wrapped in bandages._ The doctor rubbed his chin with disappointment.

_I will do this in multiple sessions, starting with his right arm and then I will do his neck. It will be good practice to start on the arm and test my skill, anyway. If I am successful, I can move to the jugular vein where I will get the greatest supply of blood with a constant flow. Once I get enough blood in the measuring bowls, I will stop the bleeding and his cough should be cured._

Moving toward the drugged Musketeer, the doctor laid out the necessary tools on the bed. Glancing one more time at Aramis sleeping in the chair, the doctor tied the tourniquet tightly just above Athos’ elbow and took a deep breath. 

Turning the arm palm up, the doctor took the lancet and sliced a small diagonal cut in the bulging vein; he placed the first measuring bowl under the flowing crimson arc. _I’ll show everyone that I’m not an inept village doctor when I’ve cured a King’s Musketeer._

The doctor glanced at Aramis sleeping in the chair just a few feet away then turned back to his bloodletting with a satisfied grin. The doctor’s heart beat wildly with excitement as he held the bowl catching blood pouring freely from Athos’ arm. _This isn’t so bad, how hard can the neck be? This is just practice, Athos. Next time, I’m going to bleed your neck, then everyone will see how great a doctor I really am!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ice was harvested and stored in China before the first millennium. Hebrews, Greeks, and Romans placed large amounts of snow into storage pits and covered this cooling agent with insulating material. The ancient Egyptians filled earthen jars with boiled water and put on roofs overnight to expose to cold air.
> 
> Cooling drinks were very popular in the 16th and 17th centuries, particularly in Europe’s southern climates, especially in Italy and Spain. It became en vogue by 1600 in France. By this time, instead of cooling water at night, people rotated long-necked bottles in water in which saltpeter was dissolved. This solution, it was discovered, could be used to produce very low temperatures and, as a result, manufacture ice. By the end of the 17th century, iced liquors and frozen juices were popular in French society. Ice cream is reputed to have been made in China as long ago as 3000 BC, but it did not arrive in Europe, via Italy, until the 13th century.
> 
> During the 15th and 16th centuries, clock making flourished, particularly in the metalworking towns of Nuremberg and Augsburg Germany; and in Blois France. Some of the more basic table clocks have only one time-keeping hand, with the dial between the hour markers being divided into four equal parts, making the clocks readable to the nearest 15 minutes. In 1584, Jost Burgi developed the spring-loaded or “wind-up” clocks, which were a great improvement in accuracy as they were correct to within a minute a day. These clocks helped the 16th-century astronomer, Tycho Brahe, to observe astronomical events with much greater precision than before.


	14. So Much Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Captain, it’s Athos,” he cried. “The doctor. . . the doctor, he’s drained too much blood!” Aramis swayed on his feet and had to lean against the wall for support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Village Doctor wanted to prove his skills then collect a reward for curing a King's Musketeer, but what he accomplished was something beyond anyone's wildest nightmares. Last part of chapter _not_ for the squeamish... though vampires may enjoy it!

The doctor filled the glass bowl, which measured as one pint of blood, very pleased with himself for a successful first bloodletting session. He removed the tourniquet and applied heavy pressure to the incision to ebb the flow of blood; he held it in place for several minutes to ensure the bleeding had stopped. He carefully sutured the incision, then placed a small bandage over the wound.

He decided to wait an hour before starting the next session. The second, and most important, session would have him advancing to the neck and finally curing Athos of his stubborn bronchitis. The doctor put away his supplies and rolled down the sleeve of the nightshirt, leaving no visible trace of the procedure done while the Musketeers slept. He took one last look around the bed then carried the bowl of blood from the room, concealed under a towel, to dispose of outside. Once his bloodletting kit was cleaned, he went back upstairs to check on d’Artagnan and Porthos.

The doctor entered Porthos’ dimly lit room to find the large Musketeer leaning against the pillows gritting his teeth against every painful rise of his chest. His right hand tightly fisted a handful of blanket; his left hand clutched over the bandaged chest wound where his fingers dug into the cloth.

The large man’s face wore a grimace of pain; sweat dampened his dark curls and plastered them to his skin. The doctor placed his lantern on the bedside table which illuminated the growing crimson stain on the bandages under Porthos’ digging fingers.

“My God, man, what have you done to yourself?” the doctor exclaimed with shock. “I’m going to have to fix this wound and bandage it again. I think I’m going to make you some valerian tea to help ease your pain and let you sleep. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes d-doctor ,” Porthos nodded in rapid succession. “Wh-where’s ‘Mis? Bl-bloody hell, it hurss.” 

“Yes, but Aramis is sleeping, so let me take a look at this and see why it’s causing you so much pain.” The doctor unwrapped the bandages then groaned as he saw the bleeding wound. “Well, it looks like you have torn out the temporary stitches, young man. Why don’t I give you that tea now,” he said, gently patting Porthos on the arm.

Waking the nurse, who had fallen asleep in a large chair next to the bed, the doctor requested she fetch hot water, enough to make tea for both Porthos and d’Artagnan-- and two cups as well.

The nurse nodded her acknowledgement then left the room.

The doctor took his medical bag to a table deeper inside the room then turned his back to the bed; he looked around before pulling out his bottle of laudanum and set it beside the dried valerian root. Having second thoughts, the doctor decided to keep the laudanum hidden and replaced it back into the bag.

When the nurse returned, he had her put the kettle of hot water and cups on the table where he would prepare the tea. “Oh, nurse? Could you also fetch a bottle of brandy and some clean towels and bandages for me please?”

While the nurse was away, the doctor took out the bottle of laudanum and poured a small amount into the cup with the crushed herb before adding the hot water. He returned the bottle to his bag, making sure it was well concealed. “Now, we’ll allow the tea to steep for a few minutes while I begin cleaning your wound.”

The doctor cleaned the wound with the brandy, wiping away the blood and sweat from the skin surrounding the wound. Taking the bottle, the doctor poured a small amount of brandy over the incision then dabbed it dry with a towel. He stole a long swig of the brandy before replacing the bottle on the table.

Porthos raised an eyebrow in surprise at the actions of the doctor. _Does he always drink while doin’ surgery?_ The Musketeer wondered nervously, suddenly leery of the doctor.

“The tea should be ready now,” the doctor turned to fetch the cup. “Drink, it will help you sleep without the pain keeping you awake. Go on, drink it up,” he prompted.

“Does valerian tea really work ‘at well, doctor?” Porthos asked with concern. “I ‘av a lot of pain tonight. Aramis has given me valerian tea before—and it helped some—but usually not ‘at much.”

“Ah, but have you been given the herb or the root of the plant?” the doctor asked. “The root is far more effective as a natural tranquilizer; it works quite well at easing pain and discomfort.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know ‘bout that.” Porthos took a sip of the tea and smiled. He drank the remainder of the tea as the doctor prepared the needle and thread to restitch his chest wound.

“Doctor, how are my friends doing?” Porthos inquired as he nestled himself back against the pillows. “How is d’Artagnan doing? And Aramis and Athos?” The large Musketeer closed his eyes as he began to grow sleepy.

“Well, your friends are doing just fine, considering,” the doctor replied. “I am going to see young d’Artagnan next; I will then go back to tending Athos. Your friend Aramis was sleeping last I saw him.”

“Thasss gooo, docc,” Porthos slurred. “I feeel str’ngge. . .” the large man’s head lolled on the pillow as he fell into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

While Porthos slept, the doctor quickly stitched the wound on the Musketeer’s chest; he finished his ministrations by cleaning the wound then wrapping it with fresh bandages. “Nurse, please keep a close eye on Porthos for any signs of change—good or bad. However, I do expect he will be sleeping very well for a while.”

“Yes, doctor,” the nurse replied.

“I am going across the hall to visit d’Artagnan if you need me.” The doctor fetched his medical bag then went across the hall with the bottle of brandy in hand.

*****

The doctor placed his medical bag on the table furthest from the nurse before turning his attention to the patient writhing on the bed. “What is wrong with our young patient, nurse?” the healer inquired.

“He’s been complaining of his shoulder giving him severe pain,” the nurse frowned. “He also says that the cuts on his back are putting him in agony; I think he’s been lying on his back too much.”

“Really, nurse? So you give prognosis as well, do you?” the doctor sneered. “I have some valerian tea that will help ease his discomfort and help him sleep,” he replied with a lighter tone. “We can also gather up extra pillows as support for behind his back; he can lay on his side so he's not putting pressure on those wounds.”

“Doctor Bonét, he’s been complaining of feeling sick too,” the nurse reported.

“I don’t feel very well. . . I feel sick,” the young Gascon complained

“I understand, son,” Doctor Bonét smiled. “Let’s make you some tea to help you sleep, shall we?”

“I don’t think it will stay down, doctor.” D’Artagnan shook his head weakly.

“Nonsense, it will soothe your upset stomach and help you sleep,” the doctor countered. “Nurse, would you please go fetch the hot water and cups I left in the room across the hall, please?”

While the nurse was away the doctor prepared the valerian root and readied the bottle of laudanum. As the requested items were brought to the table, the doctor once again asked the nurse to go gather up more pillows for d’Artagnan’s bed-- leaving him alone to make his secret potion.

Taking the laudanum, the doctor poured a measured amount into the cup then added it to the valerian root and hot water. Returning to d’Artagnan’s side, the healer placed the cup of medicinal tea on the nightstand before beginning his examination of the shoulder.

Removing the bandages and the dried poultice, Doctor Bonét examined the wound then blew out an apprehensive breath. The gunshot wound was warm to the touch, with the heated skin burning red with lighter streaks of red fingering outward.

“Looks like your shoulder is indeed infected,” he shook his head. “I’m going to mix up some more of that herbal poultice and rewrap the wound; we will keep you lying on your side to take the weight off your back lacerations. But first, you need to drink your tea; it will help you feel better.”

D’Artagnan sat up with the doctor’s help and sipped the tea as the older man mixed the poultice.

The Gascon finished the tea then leaned back against the pillows; he closed his eyes while waiting for the doctor to begin treatment. The doctor took the bottle of brandy and stole a long sip for himself before pouring the liquid over the infected wound. He wiped away the dripping alcohol with a towel, no longer caring if he was gentle. 

The Gascon winced in pain as the doctor poured the liquid fire over his throbbing wound. His slender body writhed and twisted as he tried to retreat from the doctor’s hurtful touch to his sensitive wounds. 

“Now, hold still,” the doctor scolded. “I need to clean this wound and apply the poultice and I can’t do it if you are squirming all over the place. Nurse, could you help hold him down!” the doctor growled with impatience.

D’Artagnan groaned at the pain pulsing in his shoulder, his labored breaths were coming in short gasps. “God, when will this tor-torment be over? I can’t take it anymore; I’ve had en-enough! Please st-stop!”

“I’m sorry, son,” the healer apologized. “I promise, I will make this quick and then you can get some rest.” The doctor quickly spread the poultice over the infected shoulder, being careful to get the herb mixture into the wound itself; he followed the procedure by wrapping the wound with clean bandages.

The young Gascon’s eyes began to droop heavily as sleep pulled at him. “T’rrdd. . .” D’Artagnan closed his eyes as his features relaxed and his chest slowed with sedated, restful breaths.

The doctor and nurse rearranged the pillows to prop the sleeping Musketeer on his left side. “Nurse, please keep an eye on him; if you need anything, I will be in Athos’ room,” Bonét instructed. “D’Artagnan should sleep quite well for a few hours, I believe.”

*****

Entering Athos’ room, the doctor found Aramis still asleep in the chair as he had left him a few hours ago. Maria and another nurse were quietly talking by the light of a lantern on the nightstand, each with a book laid open on their lap.

“Nurses, if you please, my patient is very ill and requires a cooling sponge bath which I will administer now. If you wouldn’t mind, could you give us some privacy and go sit with one of the other patients for a while?”

“Of course, doctor.” Maria and the nurse exchange embarrassed glances. “Please, send for us when you are finished.”

“I will, nurses,” he smiled. Doctor Bonét waited until the nurses were down the hall before pulling out the tools from his medical bag and spreading them on the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed to examine the drugged Musketeer; he checked his pulse, breathing, and level of consciousness by prying Athos’ eyes open. 

Getting no conscious response, the doctor took the tourniquet then tied it around the Musketeer’s neck but without restricting his breathing. The jugular vein soon bulged, allowing the doctor to take his lancet to cut a thin diagonal cut across the vein. 

The doctor was surprised at how quickly the blood spurted from the vein. Caught unprepared, the healer didn’t have his bowls ready to catch the flow. Streams of blood poured freely onto the bedcovers, also spurting over the front of Athos’ nightshirt.

At last, the doctor retrieved the bowl and placed it under the patient's neck; he watched with amazed horror at how rapidly the blood filled the glass container. Aramis stirred in his chair, causing the doctor to jump at the sound. Bonét unwittingly moved the bowl as he turned to glance at the Musketeer, spilling blood over the side.

Blood spurted from Athos’ neck and across the bedding as the doctor desperately tried to regain control of the bloodletting process. Having second thoughts regarding his ability to do such a dangerous procedure, the healer tried to staunch the flow of blood but it was too strong. 

With shaking hands he removed the tourniquet, spilling more of the blood as it sloshed outside the bowl to the floor. The flow of blood finally began to slow after the tourniquet was removed, much to the utter relief of the frightened doctor. 

He glanced back at Aramis, who changed positions in the chair but did not awaken. _If the medic wakes to find this ghastly scene involving his friend, I will have no possible explanation that he would accept-- my hope for reward will be over._

Grabbing the second measuring bowl, the doctor put the first filled bowl on the nightstand. He was concerned about the patient bleeding out too quickly, but he could do nothing more to decelerate the flow without stopping the bloodletting altogether.

The second measuring bowl was filling up quickly so he readied the third bowl by placing it within arm’s reach. As the second bowl filled, he promptly placed the empty third bowl under the blood stream—without spilling a drop. _I think I’m finally getting good at this now; the Musketeer should indeed begin healing by morning._

Feeling more at ease with the progress of the procedure, the doctor carefully monitored the blood rising ever higher in the third measuring bowl, nearing the top. Taking four pints in this second session might be pushing the limit, but as the doctor reached for the fourth bowl, Aramis stirred again. “Don’t wake up, dammit, I’m not done yet!” Bonét cursed as he held the fourth bowl under the neck.

Aramis awoke and blinked tiredly at the shadows dancing before him in the dim light of the lantern. The medic couldn’t focus on the blurry forms but upon waking, he thought he heard panicked cursing. Pain stabbed at his chest, bringing sudden awareness with every stinging breath.

The medic remembered they were at Château de Blois after finally saving his brothers from the jaws of hell. “Oh God, Athos!”

Aramis sat up and stared, frozen with shock and confusion at the bloody sight before him. Finally, as his consciousness was revived, Aramis pushed himself up from the chair--then stood frozen in shock. The medic forgot all about his previous chest pain and ran to the bed where the doctor was holding a half-filled bowl of blood underneath Athos’ neck.

“What the hell are you doing?” Aramis screamed at seeing three filled bowls of blood on the table and a fourth in the doctor’s hand, still catching blood as it flowed from his friend’s neck. The medic’s horror-filled eyes scanned the blood spilled all over the bed and across Athos’ clothes. "Dear God, what have you done?”

“I am bloodletting,” Doctor Bonét answered casually. “Surely, as a medic, you are familiar with the ancient procedure,” he replied dryly without a care. 

“You’ve taken too much! Oh God, this is too much blood!” Aramis yelled. “Stop this immediately; stop the bleeding now!” The medic reached for Athos’ neck to pinch off the bleeding, but the doctor pushed Aramis out of the way. In the struggle, the bowl in Bonét’s hand tipped; blood spilled out over the medic and onto the floor with a splash.

“Mother Mary. . .” Aramis paled and stumbled back, falling against the doorframe. He grabbed a hold of the frame and used it to propel himself into the hallway as he called for help. “Captain!” he screamed. “Steward Fontaine—anybody—dammit, I need help! Captain, where are you? God, where is everyone? Captain!” Aramis yelled in desperation.

Nurses came running into the hallway with their lanterns, casting eerie shadows in the darkness. The yelling in the hall caused confusion and alarm among the nurses in the opposite wing. Fearing for their patients, they ran back into their rooms to guard their patients, locking the doors behind them.

Captain Tréville rushed from his room with his dimming lantern in hand. The captain froze in his tracks in a state of shock upon entering the hallway. 

Aramis-- the Musketeer Captain Tréville always counted as calm and professional-- now stood in the dark hallway screaming uncharacteristically for help. His clothes were covered in blood.

“Mother of God. . . Aramis!” the captain blurted in horror. “What the hell happened?”

“Captain, it’s Athos,” he cried. “The doctor. . . the doctor, he’s drained too much blood!” Aramis swayed on his feet and had to lean against the wall for support.

Captain Tréville ran into the room as Steward Fontaine came bounding up the stairs at hearing the commotion on the second floor. “What the hell is going on up here?”

The smell of blood was nearly stifling upon entering the sickroom, turning the stomachs of the men running to Athos’ aid. The captain threw the doctor aside, sending the bowl of blood scattering across the floor. He immediately put his fingers over the cut on the vein and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. 

The captain’s fingers slid away from the cut due to the slippery, bloodied skin and caused a spurt of blood to spray over him. “I can’t keep my fingers on the wound,” he yelled to Aramis. “His skin is too slippery!”

“Dry his neck.” Aramis handed the captain a towel as he sat down on the bed. “Wrap two fingers in the towel then apply hard pressure to the cut and hold it in place.”

The captain obeyed his medic and wiped away the slick layer of blood from the neck. He then wrapped his fingers in the towel and pressed down hard on top of the cut, stopping the flow of crimson at last.

Steward Fontaine took the doctor by the shoulders and shook him, enraged at the actions of this supposed healer. “What have you done in here, man? Take your belongings and leave the château immediately—you are fired! I will inform Duke Gaston of what you have done tonight; you will never work for the duke again!”

Aramis stood on his feet, swaying as he was suddenly overcome with dizziness caused by the shock and panic. Overwhelming waves of pain were now crashing through his ribs; he felt as though his head was spinning. “There’s so much blood,” the medic cried. “There’s so much blood. . . Athos, please don’t d. . .” 

Aramis’ thoughts were cut off as he swooned unsteadily on his feet then fell bonelessly to the floor. If not for Steward Fontaine catching him in his arms, the medic would have landed on the hard floor smeared with pools of Athos’ blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ancient medical practice of “bloodletting” goes back thousands of years, originating in ancient Egypt, and then spreading to the Greeks and Romans. Doctors commonly bled patients for every ailment imaginable. Bloodletting was performed for pneumonia, fevers, coughs, back pain, headaches, smallpox, and even menstrual cramps; and even for treating bone fractures and other wounds.
> 
> Most bloodletters would open a vein in the arm, leg or neck with a small scalpel, called a lancet. They would tie off the vein with a tourniquet and then take the lancet to cut a diagonal or lengthwise cut into the vein. The blood would be collected in measuring bowls, made of fine Venetian glass. Sometimes they would take as much as **5-7 pints** over repeated sessions in less than 24 hours.


	15. The Captain Weeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dear God, this cannot be happening,” the captain whispered to himself. “My men. . . that doctor was brought here to _help_ my men,” Captain Tréville’s voice hitched, “instead he may have killed one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story will take a detour, totally changing direction with a combination of TRUE events involving REAL people, with our beloved Musketeers and favorite Captain Tréville along for the ride. FINALLY, you will find out what that letter involved and why it brought about such an avalanche of disaster in its wake.

Captain Tréville kept his fingers pressed hard against Athos’ neck, watching in horror as Aramis began to fall. His breath caught in his throat as Steward Fontaine caught the medic, preventing him from hitting the bloodied floor.

Looking at the ghastly sight of the room, the captain swallowed the rising bile in his throat. Despite the scene around him, he determined he wouldn't give in to the nausea; the last thing anyone needed was another patient to tend to. Captain Tréville’s men needed him to remain strong; they needed him to rise above this grisly situation.

Steeling himself against a possible gush of blood, Captain Tréville carefully removed his fingers from Athos’ neck. “The bleeding appears to be ebbing,” he informed the steward, breathing a sigh of relief. “I need a needle and thread to stitch this cut, where can I find some?”

Nurses Maria and Adele entered the room, frozen in place at the bloody sight before them. “Sweet Mary, what happened in here?” Maria asked, stunned. “The doctor told us to leave because he was going to bathe Athos. Dearest Lord, I should have known better.” The nurse cried as Adele pulled her into a comforting hug. “I shouldn’t have left Athos alone with that doctor!”

“Quiet! Pull yourself together, nurse,” Steward Fontaine snapped. “Go find a needle and some thread so we can close the cut in this neck. Do it now!” the steward ordered, prompting Maria into action.

Athos’ pale form was frighteningly still as Captain Tréville held a towel over the bleeding neck; the ghostly face of his Musketeer closely matched the color of the white towel, now stained with blotches of deep red.

The blue tinge to Athos’ lips accentuated the pallor of his face; dark circles under his eyes gave him the appearance of a corpse. If not for the beating pulse underneath the captain’s fingertips, he would have thought his Musketeer was dead. 

The captain laced his fingers through the hand of his lieutenant, taking notice of the pale fingernails at the end of his cold fingers. Worried, he ran his hand over the chest and then down the left arm of his Musketeer, stopping on the bandage on his forearm. He shook his head then glanced anxiously at the nurse. "If not for the pulse still beating under my fingers, I wouldn't think Athos was still living; his skin is so pale and cold.”

“His symptoms are normal for patients with extreme blood loss,” Maria interjected. “I worked for a time as a nurse for wounded soldiers; I saw many patients who suffered from extreme blood loss,” the nurse explained. “We must warm his body by covering him with blankets and replace the lost blood with a salt water solution injected into his veins.”

“How do we do that, nurse?” Captain Tréville asked.

“If your two doctor friends are coming, perhaps they will have a medicinal syringe in their kits,” Nurse Maria surmised. “We mix the exact measurement of water to salt and then inject it directly into his bloodstream. It works wonders… I’ve seen it performed, many times. But…”

“… but what, nurse?” the captain asked, apprehensively. 

“Once he awakens, he needs to drink plenty of water, and _we_ must monitor his urine output,” the nurse stated. “If the output of urine is too low—if there is none at all—it is a good sign that he has kidney damage,” Maria whispered. “If his kidneys are damaged due to the blood loss, I’m afraid there is nothing we can do for him.”

“Dear God, this cannot be happening,” the captain whispered to himself. “My men. . . that doctor was brought here to _help_ my men,” Captain Tréville’s voice hitched. "Instead, he may have unwittingly killed one.”

“Captain, what should we do for Aramis?” Steward Fontaine asked from the floor where he still knelt with the medic supported in his arms. “I can carry him to another room,” the steward offered.

“Steward, this may sound like a rather strange request, but would it be possible to have a cot moved in here so the two men can be in the same room?” Tréville asked without looking away from Athos. “It would be easier on the doctors caring for the two of them together in one room; plus, Athos and Aramis would do better if they could keep an eye on each other.”

“Of course, we have cots in the servant quarters,” the steward replied. “I will have one brought up right away.”

The nurse retrieved the sewing kit from Doctor Bonét’s forgotten medical bag and began threading the needle so they could stitch Athos’ neck. “Captain, I found a bottle of laudanum in the doctor’s bag behind the valerian root. I think he used it to put Athos to sleep,” the nurse shook her head. “I’m sure he used it on Porthos and d’Artagnan as well. Why, with all the screaming and commotion in the hallway earlier, neither man even stirred.” 

“Dammit,” the captain growled. “Of all the times to be without my medic to help me and tell me what I should do.”

“Captain,” Maria stepped forward, “I will help you and assist you with anything you need. I’m sure the other ladies will as well,” she spoke for the other women. “We are all trained nurses, sir.”

“I will also help you—anything at all—all you have to do is ask,” Steward Fontaine added. “I will see to it that each of your men get the help they need.” 

“Thank you, Maria,” the captain nodded with relief. "Thank you as well, Steward.” Captain Tréville stole another quick glance at the wound underneath the towel. “First matter at hand is sewing this incision closed. I can stitch Athos’ neck; I’ve stitched my fair share of wounds during my career as a Musketeer.”

Maria finished threading the needle while the captain gently cleaned up his lieutenant, washing away the grisly remnants of the doctor’s treatment. Tréville then took the bottle of brandy to sanitize the needle then poured a copious amount over Athos’ wound. He closed his eyes, took a deep cleansing breath, and then got started.

While Captain Tréville began sewing Athos’ neck, Steward Fontaine carried Aramis and carefully laid him on the chaise. “Captain, I am going to get the cot for Aramis,” he informed Tréville. “I’ll also have the servants bring warm water so we can bathe the men and clean up this blood from the floor. Athos is going to need new bed sheets and blankets, and both men need fresh nightclothes. I will return shortly.”

“Thank you, Steward,” the captain replied without looking up from his sewing. “Maria, are there any clean bandages in the doctor’s bag?”

“Yes, Captain,” the nurse smiled as she handed him the bandages.

Captain Tréville let out a sigh as he finished stitching Athos’ neck. He dabbed brandy over the new sutures then allowed them to dry before bandaging the wound. Once he was finished, he wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He sat back in his chair staring at Athos, his brow creased with worry.

Athos’ ghostly pale, still form defied life; the only sign of life from the inert Musketeer was the slight rising and falling of his chest. The captain pulled the blanket to just under the fresh bandage on his neck then watched him with concern. He tenderly ran his hand through the lieutenant’s hair, smoothing it from his face, as he spoke quietly to him. 

“You need to fight this and get well,” the captain whispered. “I know you have been through hell recently, but you have proved to me how strong you are. If ever there was someone who could rise above so many trials and setbacks—that someone is you. You are the strongest, most determined man I know; I know you can beat this, Athos.”

“I have never admitted it verbally, but I think of you as a son, Athos.” Captain Tréville hung his head and paused. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you. You have to get better, son.” The captain cleared his throat as he wiped his eyes dry. "That is not a request; it is an order. The regiment needs you and I need my lieutenant—and your brothers need you.”

The captain left Athos’ side and went to sit with Aramis to give himself time to collect his emotions. He checked on the medic’s breathing and was quite discouraged at the raspy, wheezing noises coming from his chest. “Aramis, you were supposed to be on leave and having a wonderful time with your lovely lady in Orléans,” he sighed. “If only you had stayed there; you never would have been hurt.”

Aramis was not sleeping but had heard his captain’s lamenting. “Porth’s. . . d’Artt. . . would be dead. . . had to help ssave,” the medic slurred his reply.

“Shh, don’t try to talk,” the captain soothed. “Listen, we’re going to clean you up, Aramis, and put fresh clothes on you. The steward is bringing up a bed so you can be close to Athos and keep an eye on him. I thought you would prefer to be in here rather than in a room by yourself.”

The medic nodded, smiling at his captain’s thoughtfulness.

At last, Steward Fontaine returned with a bundle of night clothes and braies in his arms; followed by several servants carrying buckets of water, clean towels, sheets and blankets, and a cot for Aramis. 

The cot was supposed to be a temporary measure—at least until Athos was recovering sufficiently—but the captain knew his men well enough to conclude that Aramis would not leave this room until they were ready to leave the château.

*****

“Perhaps I should bathe the men alone, nurse?” Captain Tréville suggested, seeing the other nurse and Steward Fontaine had momentarily left to tend to other duties.

“Nonsense, that is what got Athos into this predicament to begin with,” replied Nurse Maria. “I am a nurse, Captain; there is nothing these men have that I haven’t seen before,” she replied without embarrassment. “Now, let’s get started, shall we?”

“Yes, madame,” the captain smiled. “It would be easiest then if we worked together, bathing them one at a time.” 

“Agreed, Captain,” the nurse replied with a nod.

Nurse Maria assisted Captain Tréville in ridding the men of their bloody shirts and braies; together, they washed away the blood with warm cloths then dressed them in fresh clothing. The bloody blankets and sheets on Athos' bed were changed and replaced; the Musketeer was then tucked underneath the pile of blankets to warm his chilled body. Meanwhile, a group of unlucky servants began the gruesome task of washing away the pools of blood from the floor.

Once the work was finished, Captain Tréville and Steward Fontaine carried Aramis to his prepared cot. The captain pulled up the blankets and tucked his medic in with a pat to his shoulder. "Sleep well, son.”

“It’s almost daylight,” the captain whispered to his medic. “I pray the doctors arrive soon so we can finally take care of you boys. Until then, try to get some sleep while I go check on your brothers and make sure they’re alright.”

“Keep. . . eye on. . . Athos,” Aramis implored as he closed his eyes to sleep.

“You know I will.” Captain Tréville patted his medic on the shoulder gently. He left Nurse Maria and Steward Fontaine in charge of keeping an eye on Athos and Aramis while he was absent.

*****

Captain Tréville entered d’Artagnan’s room to find his Musketeer writhing in pain, his face flushed and beaded with sweat. “What’s wrong with him? he asked Nurse Adele as she removed the dressing from his shoulder.

“I believe he’s fighting infection, Captain,” Nurse Adele replied.

Captain Tréville winced as the nurse pulled away the bandage, revealing the red and swollen skin warm with infection. “Oh no…” the captain moaned with dread.

“His shoulder is definitely infected,” the nurse confirmed. “I will have to drain it,” she shook her head. “After I drain it, I’ll cover it with a warm compress to encourage further draining until the doctors arrive.”

“Is there anything we can do to prevent his shoulder from getting worse?” Tréville asked. “I don’t want to go through another experience like we did with Athos—not if we can avoid it.”

“Well, by treating the infection in the early stages, like it is now, we have a good chance of stopping the infection from spreading further. By draining the pus, we are ridding the wound of the infection and giving it room to heal. As long as we keep it clean, while using the herbs to pull the infection out, hopefully the infection will dissipate rather than spread.”

“Nurse, you certainly sound like the voice of experience,” the captain complimented, deeply impressed. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t think you’ll want to watch me as I drain this wound,” the nurse warned. “When I am done with draining, _we_ will need to wash and sanitize the wound; we will then apply the herbal poultice, followed by clean bandages.” 

“Very well, Nurse,” the captain nodded. “Let’s get started.”

The nurse cleaned and drained d’Artagnan’s shoulder, wiping away all evidence of the pus before asking the captain over to help wash the wound and sanitize it with brandy. The duo allowed the wound to dry before applying the poultice and then the bandage.

By the time the duo was finished, their faces glistened with perspiration. “You’re quite the assistant, Captain,” Nurse Adele laughed as she wiped away the sweat. “Thank you so much for your help.” 

“It was my pleasure, Mademoiselle Adele.” Captain Tréville wiped his face dry with a towel and gratefully accepted a glass of cool water. “My men have been through such incredible affliction and suffering these last few months," he sighed. "I just want them to recover; I want them to get back to doing what they each excel at.”

“What is that, Captain?” 

“Being a King’s Musketeer.”

*****

The captain entered Porthos' room where Nurse Marta ran a cool cloth over the large Musketeer’s forehead, wiping away the sweat from his face. She looked up from her work as the captain sat in the chair beside the bed.

“How’s he doing?”

“He still hasn’t woken from the laudanum, Captain,” the nurse answered quietly. “I’m just trying to keep him comfortable while closely watching his chest wound. It sounds like his breathing is becoming more labored—I can hear him wheezing occasionally. I’ve listened to his left lung and I still hear breathing sounds, which is good; at least I know that his lung hasn’t collapsed.”

The captain huffed a breath of amazement at the nurse’s prognosis. “We should have relied on you nurses to take care of my men rather than that so-called doctor; it certainly appears that each of you are far better qualified than he was.”

“Thank you, Captain, you are very kind,” Nurse Marta smiled. “A few of us have worked with Doctor Bonét before; we found him to be very arrogant and pompous —though I have no idea what for.”

“He has caused terrible harm.” The captain pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. “One of my best Musketeers may die for his want of accolade and reward from the king.”

“I am very sorry for what has happened to your Musketeer, Captain. I can tell you that Maria feels terrible for leaving Athos alone with Doctor Bonét,” the nurse spoke sadly. “If she had stayed in the room, the doctor would not have been so bold to experiment with bloodletting-- especially considering that he’s never done it before.” 

“It’s not Maria’s fault,” the captain assured. “The only one who is at fault is Doctor Bonét. He knew what he was doing when he deliberately concealed his actions to avoid getting caught. I would hope he never practices medicine again!” Captain Tréville hardened his jaw as he took in a deep breath through his nose. “If my Musketeer dies, I will see to it that he is charged with murder.”

“I understand, Captain,” the nurse agreed. “You are absolutely right to seek punishment for Doctor Bonét. I will pray for your Musketeer and that God’s mercy will shine down on him.”

“Thank you, Nurse.” Captain Tréville smiled as he noticed the bright morning sunshine streaming in through the large windows. As he gazed out the window, his heart filled with hope that this day would finally bring healing to his men. He silently prayed that the doctors would come soon as he heard the sweet and joyful sound of birds singing their welcome to the new day.

“The doctors should be arriving soon.” Captain Tréville sprang to his feet. “I’ve got to check on Athos. Thank you, Nurse,” he called out as he ran from the room.

The Captain of the Musketeers rushed into Athos’ room to find his lieutenant still unmoving and deathly pale; the ghastly sight of his second-in-command caused his breath to hitch. “Nurse, how is he?”

“Not good, I’m afraid,” Nurse Maria replied. “He hasn’t woken since you left; he is cold, clammy to the touch and unresponsive. I am not skilled enough to know how much salt solution to give him, nor do I have the syringe, so we have no choice but to wait for the physicians. I am sorry, Captain.”

Captain Tréville fell hopelessly into the chair and shook his head with despondence. He leaned forward, resting his head on Athos' chest, as he began praying in earnest for healing. The prayers soon turned to despairing cries; the captain’s shoulders shook from the sobs and his desperate pleas for divine intervention.

After some time, the nurse believed the captain had fallen asleep when his prayers quieted and the weeping ceased. Maria left the captain alone to rest, not having the heart to interrupt the leader with his lieutenant.

Aramis stirred awake and glanced at the bed to discover Captain Tréville draped over Athos’ unmoving form. Fearing the worst, Aramis sprang into action. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and tried to stand, only to gasp out suddenly in pain as he fell back onto the bed.

The medic writhed in agony as stabbing pain hammered through his chest; he felt as though his heart had been run through with a sword. As he tried to draw breath, he was wracked with wet coughs that sprayed his hand red with blood.

Nurse Maria yelled for for help as bloody foam bubbled from Aramis’ mouth and the medic fell limp against the pillow, unconscious.

Captain Tréville awoke to a cacophony of panicked screaming in the room mixed with the excited voice of Steward Fontaine booming through the large château from the bottom of the stairs. The exhausted captain’s senses were immediately overwhelmed as he sat up, stunned at the sight of his medic sprayed red with blood as the nurse screamed for his help. 

Tréville’s ears perked at the glorious announcement rising above the screams. “The carriage has arrived!” the steward announced. “Inform Captain Tréville at once that the doctors have arrived!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history of nursing suggests that at one time, nursing was only conducted by nuns, other religious women or the military. An interesting fact is that many practicing nurses were developing their skills when offering care to those within the estate of their patron's, such as these _"chamber maids."_ While staying at the estate, these nurses would often be required to perform the duties typically undertaken by apothecaries, physicians and surgeons so they actually became quite skilled in practicing medicine. I like to think that I patterned my nurses in the story after these real life heroines!
> 
> While nursing faced more tumultuous times during the years to come, nurses remained in demand more than ever and were often tasked with administering certain health care services to patients that might have been wary of the care provided by actual doctors.
> 
> Wars have had a great influence on nursing, as the demands of caring for sick and wounded increased the need for nurses. During the Crusades nurses were knights employed in battle. Such nurses returned from war trained in specialties such as anesthesia and psychiatric care.
> 
> Many early nurses had religious affiliations, such as the nuns who are honored with the wearing of traditional nursing caps. In the Middle Ages came the Plague, and so did the construction of hospitals and the founding of many nursing orders. During this period monks and nuns provided patient care in the hospital setting traditionally run by the deaconesses.
> 
> Florence Nightingale was a well-educated, upper-class British woman who balked social norms after she believed she was called by God to become a nurse. She championed more sanitary living and medical conditions and saw the death rates of soldiers during both war and peacetime drop dramatically. She has been credited with advancing nursing as a profession.
> 
> ****  
> Many early 17th century blood transfusions were unsuccessful; however, alternate procedures for replacing lost blood were successful. As early as 1616, Sir William Harvey successfully injected medicines into the blood stream with a syringe. The syringe, made of brass, was used from 1601-1630. It was found that mixing a perfect measure of salt and water was an acceptable replacement for lost blood, injected directly into the blood stream. Today, The _American Cancer Society_ still promotes saline solutions as a safe alternative to blood transfusions to those who might refuse such, due to religious beliefs or fear of disease.


	16. The Doctors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Doctor Molyneux, why don’t you stay and treat the two men in this room, while I go see what needs to be done with the other two patients,” Doctor Berteau suggested, looking between the doctor and the captain. “We can take care of the men faster and more efficiently if we separate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the doctors set out to put the Musketeers on the road to recovery and then the story takes a wild twist. Since all four boys needed surgery, this chapter is especially long-the longest one yet. Hope you enjoy!

Steward Fontaine led the doctors and Nurse Cécile inside the château and upstairs toward the bed chambers as Nurse Maria met the group at the top of the staircase in a panic.

“Doctors, thank God, we need help in here,” the nurse announced. “It’s Aramis; there’s something very wrong.”

“No, not Aramis!” Cécile cried as she ran ahead of the group with the two doctors and the steward just behind her. “Captain, oh God, how is he?” the nurse asked. She gasped when she saw Aramis unconscious on the bed with bloody sputum sprayed around his mouth, spattering his clothes and his cot.

“Not well, I’m afraid, Cécile,” the captain shook his head. He got up from the cot to move out of the way when he saw the doctors approach. "Thank God, you’re here. Thank you both for coming.”

Doctors Molyneux and Berteau rushed to the bedside to find Aramis lying on his side with a thin stream of bubbling blood dripping from his mouth. Molyneux turned the medic on his back to place his ear on Aramis’ chest; he listened to the lungs, all the while watching the lopsided and labored rise and fall of his chest. 

“He has no breath sounds coming from the right lung and his chest rises only on the left side.” Doctor Molyneux sat up then shook his head grimly. “Judging from the bloody sputum, I believe his lung has been punctured and has collapsed.”

“I wrapped Aramis’ ribs just before he left Orléans in search of his friends,” Cécile informed the doctor. “He said that he had been attacked by highwaymen who brutally kicked and beat him. I believed then that his ribs were broken, but he only allowed me to wrap them; he said he was in a hurry to leave with Athos.”

“I’ll need to do surgery immediately,” Doctor Molyneux stated. “Cécile, I will need my medical bag and tools; I also need clean towels, water and brandy. In addition, I will need cotton, a small glass bowl, and a candle for lighting when I need it.”

“I will have the servants retrieve the miscellaneous items for you doctor,” Steward Fontaine offered. 

“Doctors, contrary to what Aramis wrote with regard to our three wounded, I actually have four men needing immediate surgery and treatment--as I'm sure Aramis did not include himself. Porthos has a probable diaphragm injury with increasingly labored breathing; d’Artagnan has an infected right shoulder; Athos …” Captain Tréville paused as he turned to motion toward the ghostly white face of the Musketeer tucked underneath a pile of blankets. 

The two doctors and Cécile turned to follow the captain’s gaze to the Musketeer lying unmoving and ghostly pale under the blankets. “Athos, what happened to him?” Cécile asked.

“Athos had at least four pints of blood taken from his arm and neck; he is cold, pale and unresponsive,” the captain reported.

“God have mercy!” Molyneux glanced with horror at Athos, his former patient. “How…”

“We don’t have time to explain right now,” the captain replied impatiently. “Will both of you be doing surgery on Aramis, or can one of you take care Porthos, who is in very bad condition right now.”

“Doctors, I can help with Athos,” Nurse Maria interjected. “I have extensive experience working with wounded soldiers suffering from extreme blood loss; I even assisted the physicians with the saline transfusions. However, I do not have the proper equipment necessary for the transfusion, nor the saline ratio, but if you can instruct me…” the nurse paused, waiting for a response.

“Gauging by the frantic nature and the extent of injuries Aramis listed in his letter, we brought all the tools and supplies we thought might come in handy—to include the tools for a transfusion,” Doctor Molyneux informed the nurse.

“If we can get the saline solution prepared, while one of you doctors set up the transfusion equipment, I can take care of Athos,” Nurse Maria offered. “This will allow one doctor to work on Aramis, while the transfusion is in process; and the other doctor begins treatment on Porthos and then d’Artagnan.” 

“Yes, that is a wonderful idea, nurse,” Doctor Berteau nodded with approval. “For the saline solution, we need nine grams of sodium chloride mixed with one thousand milliliters of sterile water…” the doctor paused as Steward Fontaine began writing down the solution ingredients.

“I will get that mixture together then brought up immediately.” Steward Fontaine quickly turned on his heel and ran from the room.

“Doctor Molyneux, why don’t you stay and treat the two men in this room, while I go see what needs to be done with the other two patients.” Doctor Berteau nodded, while looking between the doctor and the captain. “We can take care of the men faster and more efficiently if we separate.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Captain Tréville sighed with relief. “I will show you to their rooms and tell you about Porthos’ chest wound while we walk. Oh, and there are two very capable and experienced nurses, Marta and Adele, who will be able to assist you with surgery and treatment.”

“Wonderful!” Doctor Berteau gathered his kit and supplies. “Lead the way, Captain.”

*****

Steward Fontaine returned with the saline solution and set it on the table beside Athos’ bed. "Here is the prepared saline, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Steward.” Doctor Molyneux looked up from his examination of Athos. “We will be doing multiple repetitions of the saline treatment. Do you have enough sodium chloride to make several batches of solution?”

“Absolutely,” Steward Fontaine replied. “If not, I will purchase more,” he said as he departed to make more saline solution.

“I will need you to hold the cow’s bladder while I pour the solution in.” Doctor Molyneux instructed Maria as he held up the bladder. “You will continue holding it up as the saline drains into Athos, if this is acceptable?” he asked the nurse.

“Why, yes, of course,” Maria agreed. “I have done this procedure before, doctor.”

“That is very impressive, Nurse. I am happy to work with someone who is experienced in this procedure,” the doctor smiled. Doctor Molyneux began the transfusion by inserting a small ivory tube into the cow’s bladder; next, he pulled the delicate skin over the tube until it fit perfectly and created a vacuum. The doctor lifted the sleeve on Athos’ right arm and found the small bandage where the bloodletting incision had been covered. “I’ll just take out these sutures here in the vein and use this location for the needle.”

Once he had removed the sutures, the doctor carefully inserted a goose quill into the large vein then plugged the end with his finger to stop the flow of blood, while elevating Athos’ arm. “Nurse Maria, bring the bladder here, quickly!” Doctor Molyneux instructed as he kept the quill plugged. 

“Let’s switch places with our fingers,” Maria suggested, “I’ll keep Athos’ arm elevated and plug the quill while you get the bladder ready.” The duo easily traded duties, freeing the doctor to finish putting together the transfusion apparatus.

The doctor took the ivory tube then attached it to the end of the quill. Satisfied with the tube and quill attached together, he lowered Athos’ arm so the saline would begin to flow into the vein. “Now, keep a good eye on the flow,” the doctor instructed. “Don’t let it flow too quickly; keep it at a slower pace, for now, and we’ll see how he reacts to it. If you can handle things here with Athos, Maria, I will begin treating Aramis, yes?”

“Yes, doctor.” Nurse Maria nodded as she held the bladder, not too high as to keep a slower flow.

*****

**Aramis:**

“Cécile, I will need your assistance with surgery and as we begin mihceme,” Molyneux stated. He looked to see if all the necessary supplies were in the room then nodded with satisfaction. “I believe we are ready to begin.”

Doctor Molyneux soaked a towel with brandy then swabbed where he had detected the broken ribs on the right side. He took his scalpel and made a small incision. “Swab the blood please, Cécile,” he requested. “I’ll need you to hold the incision open while I repair the lung and the ribs.”

“Yes, doctor,” Cécile nodded as she mopped up the blood with a towel.

“Ah, yes, I see the tear in the lung where the jagged end of a broken rib punctured it. I can easily fix the tear and then repair those bones,” the doctor said. The man moved his head around to optimize his inspection of the injuries inside Aramis’ chest then nodded quietly to himself. 

The doctor proceeded to suture the torn lung without conversation. Once finished with the sutures, he repaired the broken ribs by carefully readjusting the bones, fitting the parts together like interlocking pieces. “Alright, we are now ready to begin the aspiration process, Cécile,” Molyneux said as he finished swabbing away blood from the area.

With both hands, Molyneux held a small bowl by the rim, watching as Cécile took a piece of cotton soaked with brandy then lit it on fire. With a pair of tongs, she placed the fiery cotton inside the bowl where it was allowed to burn for a few seconds before quickly removing it again with the tongs. 

The doctor immediately turned the bowl open side down over the incision on Aramis’ chest where the heat would create a vacuum and begin sucking excess fluid and oxygen from the chest cavity. The bowl was left in place a few minutes for absolute suction before it was removed; the process was repeated over and again until the doctor saw no more frothy blood being pulled from the pleural cavity. 

“Very good, mihceme is finished and appears to have been successful,” the doctor reported with a smile. “We’re ready to close him up.” Molyneux stitched the incision closed then finished with a thorough swabbing of the area with some brandy.

“Now, I will cover the incision with a small bandage,” the doctor articulated while he worked. “Cécile, if you will assist me with the bandage, we can wrap up his ribs tightly and we’ll be finished. We’ll need to gather several pillows to elevate his upper body for easier breathing; he must lie very still for a few days to allow those ribs to heal.”

“What about his lung, doctor?” Nurse Cécile asked.

“Fortunately, the lung is a very resilient organ,” Molyneux replied. “Now that the excess fluid and air has been removed from the pleural space, the lung will naturally reinflate itself and begin healing in a matter of days. However, complete healing of the lung, combined with the injured ribs, will take weeks.”

“Well, let’s hope Aramis will give his injuries time to heal before charging off on some new adventure,” Cécile chuckled as they finished bandaging the medic's ribs.

“How is Athos doing over there, Nurse Maria?” Doctor Molyneux inquired, looking over his shoulder.

“The saline solution is about half-finished, doctor,” Maria replied. She sat patiently holding the bladder, watching closely as the saline solution flowed at a precise pace.

“Alright Cécile, we have finished with Aramis now; let us leave him be so he can rest. I will go see what I can do for poor Athos,” Doctor Molyneux frowned. “I told this young man to take it easy—allow himself time to heal after his illness with catarrh—but it is obvious that he did not listen to me. Now he is in worse shape than before,” the doctor muttered.

“Well, if anyone can help Athos, Doctor Molyneux, you can,” Cécile replied with confidence. “I wonder how everything is going with Doctor Berteau? I sure hope he can help Porthos.”

*****

**Porthos:**

Doctor Berteau examined Porthos’ chest wound and then listened to his lungs with his ear pressed against the left side of the Musketeer’s chest. “I still hear breathing sounds from the left lung,” he informed Nurse Marta. “I see the chest rises evenly together, which is indeed a very good sign.”

“I’ve been monitoring his breathing, as well as the breathing sounds inside his chest closely; I never got the impression that his lung collapsed,” Nurse Marta replied.

“What is causing Porthos so much distress while breathing then?” Captain Tréville asked.

“Given the location of the stab wound, and that he has had difficulty breathing, I am guessing there is damage to his diaphragm. However, I will not know the extent of such damage until I open him up in surgery.”

“What exactly does the diaphragm do, doctor?” 

“The diaphragm is a muscle that controls the lung’s respiration," the doctor explained. "When the diaphragm contracts, the lungs expand. Without realizing it, we rely heavily on our diaphragm; if it is injured, our ability to breathe is impaired, though not in the same manner as a collapsed lung. It could be a very serious injury, but let us hope that it is not.”

“Doctor, we have everything ready to begin surgery,” the nurse interjected. “I am Nurse Marta, by the way, and I will be your assistant.”

“Hello, Nurse Marta,” Doctor Berteau nodded and smiled. “We shall get started after we administer dwale to the patient; I do not want him waking in the middle of surgery. I have the ingredients for the potion in my bag,” the doctor instructed.

Nurse Marta assisted the doctor in preparing the dwale while Captain Tréville kept an eye on the patient.

Porthos was awake, though still groggy from the laudanum. “Porthos, I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I am Doctor Berteau; we met at the Château Chamarande.”

“Yes, I ‘member you, doctor,” Porthos nodded as he closed his eyes.

“I am going to be taking care of the stab wound here in your chest and then, hopefully, we will quickly get you on the road to recovery. I have some dwale for you to drink; it will help you sleep during surgery so you will not feel pain. Sound good, yes?”

Porthos took the proffered cup from Captain Tréville; he hesitated a moment as he glanced at his captain.

“Go on and drink it, Porthos,” the captain encouraged. “You’ll be alright; I promise you, the dwale is safe.”

Porthos nodded then drank the potion until it was gone; he handed the cup back to the captain.

“Very good, Porthos,” the doctor smiled. “Now we shall wait for it to take effect before we get started.”

After the large Musketeer fell asleep, Doctor Berteau poured an ample amount of brandy over the chest as Nurse Marta mopped up the liquid with a towel. He took the scalpel and made a long incision by the wound, just under the last rib on the left side. "Nurse, if you would please hold the skin back and keep the incision open, I will proceed.” The doctor used a probing tool to go underneath the ribs to examine the smooth, deep-red diaphragm; he soon found a jagged tear in the lower right corner of the muscle. “Ah, here is the cut made by the knife,” the doctor exclaimed. “Now, let us see how deep the laceration is.”

Doctor Berteau examined the diaphragm, carefully probing into the laceration until he found the bottom of the cut. “Thank God,” the doctor sighed and nodded. “The knife did not penetrate the liver—the liver is unharmed! Let us see if we can figure out what happened here…” Berteau’s voice trailed as he looked for clues.

“Ah, I see why the knife didn’t penetrate deeper,” Doctor Berteau exclaimed happily. “His ninth rib has a deep gouge in it, obviously caused by the blade glancing then scraping along the bone. The rib prevented the knife from penetrating through the diaphragm and into the liver. If the blade had penetrated the liver,” he paused then sucked a long breath through his teeth. "Well, we would not be having this surgery, Captain; instead, you would have been preparing for his funeral.”

Captain Tréville said nothing, but he swallowed hard and shook his head. “Thank God that is not the case,” he whispered quietly to himself.

“Alright, I will suture this tear in the diaphragm and we’ll close him up.” The doctor stitched the muscle tear closed; he then dabbed all around on the inside of the diaphragm cavity with a cotton swab, cleaning up the blood before closing the incision. Once the outer incision was stitched then cleaned with brandy, the area was covered with salve and bandaged.

“We must keep an eye on this incision and the surrounding area for infection,” the doctor instructed the nurse. “Check the dressing every two or three hours; make sure you change it, every time. Reapply the salve when you change the dressing. Hopefully, with these precautions we will avoid any chance of infection.”

“Yes, doctor,” Nurse Marta replied.

“Now, let me take a look at these many lacerations. . .” his voice trailed. “Poor son, what did they do to you?”

“I haven’t heard the full story myself, but the evidence of their handiwork is quite clear.” Captain Tréville stated angrily.

“Indeed it is, Captain,” the doctor agreed. “Look at these wrist wounds!” He held up Porthos’ large wrist, turning it while frowning at the deep cuts in the skin. “It appears that he tried to fight against the manacles; perhaps he tried to pull his hand free. It is too late to stitch these wounds, they’re already scabbing over. I will apply a salve and bandage them.”

“Would you like help applying salve to the lacerations, doctor?” Captain Tréville asked.

“Yes, that would be most helpful, Captain,” the doctor agreed. “We must first tend to these lacerations on his front; we will then roll him over to treat his back. Between the three of us, it shouldn’t take us too long—so let us all get busy.”

Once the salve and bandages were finished on Porthos’ front, the three worked together to gently roll the Musketeer onto his right side, being observant of the recent chest incision, as they propped him against a mountain of pillows. “My God, I can’t imagine the suffering this man endured.”

“I have to warn you, doctor,” the captain stated grimly. “D’Artagnan is every bit as bad.”

“I cannot fathom the kind of person who could do this to another human being,” Berteau shook his head with disgust. “I’ve spent my entire career fixing up the broken bodies and mending the damage done in the name of war; oppression; regional conflict; punishment and torture. There is no limit to the anguish and calamity human beings are willing to inflict on others. I find it all rather disturbing.”

“I agree with you, doctor,” Captain Tréville replied. “I wonder if we will ever live in a world without humanity suffering in such a way? In our line of work, perhaps, we have become _too_ accustomed to the conflict going on around us. Our focus is, not just a personal fight for survival, but personal sacrifice as we try to protect our brother beside us. For the Musketeers, fighting and war—conflict—it is the very nature of our work, doctor.”

“I understand, Captain,” the doctor frowned. “The need for your job is mandated by the unrelenting suffering imposed on those who are weaker; the poor people who are unable to defend against power, wealth, and unyielding greed. Unfortunately, I don’t believe we will ever see a world without suffering, Captain. No, humanity will never know a world coexisting in peace.”

“That is a very sad and bleak outlook on life, doctor—albeit very truthful.” Captain Tréville frowned as he finished applying his portion of salve to the cuts. 

“I will need your need help applying these bandages over his back,” the doctor requested of his two assistants. “Captain, if you would lift Porthos up while I thread the bandage underneath him to Nurse Marta, we can all help him get him bandaged. We shall keep Porthos propped on his side to keep the weight off these wounds; he should begin healing in a few days.”

Once finished, the doctor told the nurse to ask for help before changing the bandages; he reminded her when they did change the bandages, the salve must be also be reapplied. 

“I will be back to check on his progress in a few hours,” Doctor Berteau stated. “Now, let’s see what we can do for our young Gascon, shall we?”

“I hope Aramis and Athos are nearly finished in surgery.” Captain Tréville sighed to himself as he gazed at the opposite end of the hall. “Once d’Artagnan is finished, my men can finally begin healing.”

*****

**Athos:**

“Athos, what have you done to yourself?” Doctor Molyneux sat on the edge of the Musketeer’s bed to begin examination after beginning the first round of transfusions. The doctor pulled the blankets down to the waist then laid a hand on Athos’ chest; he frowned and shook his head at the cool temperature and pallor of the skin. “His temperature is still too low and his skin too pale,” he frowned. “How many pints did the doctor take from Athos?”

“I don’t know for certain, doctor,” the nurse replied. “No one was in the room when the doctor did his procedure on Athos. . .” her voice trailed as pictured the gory scene in her mind. At that instant, she snapped her fingers as a memory came to mind. “I remember seeing three bowls on the table; there was another bowl on the floor that had been knocked from his hand, so that makes four—at least.”

“It’s at least four because I had to remove three fresh stitches from his right arm before I began the transfusion,” the doctor said, motioning to the arm with the quill still inserted in the vein. “He may have taken a pint from the arm, possibly bringing the loss of blood to nearly five pints. Nurse, what happened to his left arm?”

“Aramis said that he was hit with a cat’s paw-- a torture device-- when rescuing Porthos from the dungeon,” Maria shook her head sadly. “Reportedly, the doctor saw that the muscle had been torn but he was not skilled enough as a surgeon and, therefore, could not fix the wound.”

“Oh dear.” Doctor Molyneux’s eyes grew wide as he quickly unwrapped the arm to check the damage. “That doctor may have left the wound untreated too long; I don’t know if I’ll be able to repair the damage.”

“Doctor, Aramis did pack the arm with ice,” the nurse reported. “At least, he did until he was overcome by his wounds and fell asleep.”

“When was that, Nurse?” Molyneux inquired as he examined the arm. “Aramis fell asleep in the chair just before the doctor told us to leave; it was just before he bled Athos last night.”

“Ice,” Doctor Molyneux smiled as he huffed in amazement. “I keep telling that young medic, he missed his true calling. I wonder if the captain would mind it terribly if I permanently _borrowed_ his medic and made him my assistant?” the doctor asked with a grin.

“Yes, actually, I think the captain _would_ mind.” Nurse Cécile smiled, proud of her lover. “Aramis is the regiment’s best medic; he has saved many lives that otherwise would have been lost. I know Captain Tréville and the Musketeer regiment could not afford to lose him, Doctor.”

“Can Athos survive losing four or five pints of blood without any residual effects, Doctor?” Nurse Maria asked, her brow furrowed with worry.

“Even if he was healthy to begin with, his outcome would be rather questionable; as it is now, however, it is hard to be optimistic. Athos was not healthy and was falling ill again, hence the bloodletting to cure him.” Molyneux pressed his ear against the Musketeer’s chest to listen to both lungs then cursed.

“I hear rattling in the lungs from congestion—probably bronchitis,” the doctor frowned. “I am certain this is why the doctor tried bloodletting; he hoped to cure the bronchitis. The problem is that he was not experienced enough to have tried such a dangerous procedure as bloodletting from the jugular vein—that was very foolish of him.”

“Foolish is not the word I would use,” Cécile grumbled under her breath.

“Doctor, how many saline transfusions do we give him?” the nurse asked. “I know that he needs fluids, but how much salt water is safe?”

“We will just do the one thousand milliliters per day,” the doctor replied. “We cannot overdose him with too much saline in a twenty-four hour period.”

“Since I am still holding the saline bag, will Cécile be able to assist you on his arm, Doctor?” Nurse Maria asked.

“I’d be happy to assist you,” Cécile offered, stepping forward to the sickbed. “We should have everything we need to get started.”

The doctor took the bottle of brandy then liberally poured the alcohol over the open wound of the forearm; he allowed the alcohol to sit a moment before dabbing the arm dry with a towel. “If you would take the retractors to hold back the edges, Cécile, I will get started.”

Doctor Molyneux used tweezers to pull back the jagged edges of the torn muscle to realign the ends together. Using the probing tool, he pushed the larger torn pieces of the muscle together, readying them to be sutured. “Cécile, if you would use the tweezers to push against the edges here while I sew…” the doctor’s voice trailed as he motioned with his needle. 

With Cécile as his assistant, Doctor Molyneux slowly and carefully sutured the torn muscle together; without further conversation, the duo finished the surgery, each smiling with satisfaction. The doctor sanitized the wound, once again dabbing it dry with a clean towel, before applying an herbal salve and a loose bandage. “Alright, now we wait and pray his arm will heal properly.” Molyneux wiped the sweat from his brow. “Let me check this neck wound to see how it is healing,” he said as he peeled away the bandage. “Nurse Maria, who stitched up this wound?”

“Captain Tréville did, doctor,” Maria replied with a smile. “Why, did he do something wrong?”

“No, quite the opposite, actually,” Molyneux answered. “Captain Tréville did a fine job stitching his neck; in fact, I am quite impressed with his suturing talent,” he smiled. 

“I am sure he would be very pleased to hear you say that, doctor,” Cécile smiled. 

“Nurse, hand me the salve in my bag so I can reapply more ointment—to be safe—before redressing it.”

Finally as the team finished with the patient, the doctor leaned back in his chair exhausted. “I’ll let Athos rest a while longer before trying to wake him, but it’s vital we get some water in him as soon as possible so we can monitor his kidneys.”

“Even if we do get water into his system, doctor,” the nurse interjected. “How long will it take before it goes through the kidneys and out of his system?”

“Well, it depends on the person, but it can be anywhere from an hour to five or six hours,” the doctor answered. “If he starts drinking water and hasn’t put out any urine within twenty four hours…” he sighed and shook his head. “Nevertheless, we won’t know the extent of any potential kidney damage until we can monitor his urine output. Until then, we’ll keep pumping the fluids into him; only then will we know if his kidneys are working correctly. . . or not.”

*****

**d’Artagnan:**

Doctor Berteau followed Captain Tréville into d’Artagnan’s room where they both sat in chairs on opposite sides of the bed. The doctor peeled away the bandage on the shoulder, examining the wound closely as it was revealed. 

“Who treated this shoulder?” the doctor asked as he examined the sutures and the swollen wound.

“Doctor Bonét and Aramis did the first time,” Nurse Adele answered. "It was Captain Tréville and I who treated it the second time. We finished bandaging his wound behind Doctor Bonét as he was too rushed to do it himself. Since then, we have been keeping warm compresses on it to encourage draining of the infection.”

“Thank you, Adele,” Berteau complimented the nurse. “It appears the wound is _trying_ to rid itself of the infection, and your actions certainly have aided in healing; the infection—I’m afraid—is being rather stubborn, however. I’m going to remove the stitches and completely clean out the wound. I will pack an herbal poultice inside the wound before restitching it closed—we’ll keep the wound open until the infection is gone.”

“Do you think the infection has already moved into his bloodstream?” Captain Tréville asked with worry. “Can you save him?”

“I will do everything I can to keep the infection from getting any worse, Captain,” the doctor said, setting his jaw with determination. “I am a physician who has treated a multitude of injuries and illnesses but there is little I hate more than infections. Wound infections enjoy taking a backdoor approach in stealing a man’s health from him like a thief—but I will not allow it.”

“What are you going to do, doctor?” Nurse Adele asked, trading glances with Captain Tréville.

“Well, first I will remove the stitches and clean out the wound—drain out the pus and infected fluids—and then I’ll fill the wound with herbs that are synonymous with healing infections. We must do everything possible to prevent the infection from spreading into his bloodstream.” 

The doctor took the scalpel and cut through Aramis’ previous work; he removed the sutures to allow for drainage of the infection-filled pus with firm pressure of a towel across the surface of the wound. After the pus was pushed out and the fluid drained, Doctor Berteau proceeded to clean and irrigate the open wound with a brine solution to sanitize. “It is good that d’Artagnan is not aware of this treatment, else he would be screaming in agony due to the salt burning.”

“He already had salt deliberately poured onto his wounds at the dungeon,” Nurse Adele whispered. “He told me that it felt like he had been lit on fire.”

“When did d’Artagnan tell you this, nurse?” Captain Tréville asked, as this was the first time he had heard of the brine solution being poured on his men.

“Sometime last night,” the nurse replied. “I was trying to get him to talk to me, tell me about what happened. He shouldn't carry the burden of its memory around with him; it will drag him down with its heavy weight.”

“Indeed it will, Nurse,” Captain Tréville smiled. “You are a very wise nurse; one who is a good counselor, who mends not just the body, but the mind as well. Thank you for taking such good care of my men.”

“It is my pleasure, Captain,” the nurse blushed.

“I will leave the wound open but will pack it with gauze for twenty-four to forty-eight hours to absorb the pus and discharge.” Doctor Berteau voiced aloud as he finished his work. “We must irrigate the wound with the salt solution twice per day and repack it with the gauze until there is no further pus visible. Let us pray this takes care of the infection.” The doctor instructed the nurse as she watched him complete his work on the shoulder.

“Now, let us see what else we can do for the rest of these terrible wounds over his front and back, shall we?” Doctor Berteau asked, though of no one in particular.

“Doctor, if you will treat the lacerations on his chest and stomach, I will treat and bandage his wrists so we can then turn him over to work on his back,” Adele suggested.

“Agreed,” the doctor nodded. “Nurse, you said that this young man and Porthos were subjected to a brine solution being splashed over their wounds as a deliberate torment? I know the salt must have burned his wounds as though his skin had been set alight,” the doctor shook his head sadly. “However, what the tormentors did not realize is that they did d’Artagnan and Porthos a favor by irrigating and sanitizing these open wounds.”

“Don’t let d’Artagnan hear you say that those monsters did him a favor,” Captain Tréville interjected. “I’m sure he wasn’t thinking of the medical benefits as salt was being sadistically poured over his wounds.”

“Oh, believe me, Captain, I can only imagine the terror this young man went through—and I do not belittle his suffering at all,” Doctor Berteau replied. “However, I do know dungeons are typically filthy and caked with dried body fluids, blood and gore; most people tormented in those hellish places—if they have not died from the torture method themselves—will end up dying from infection.”

“I understand what you are saying, doctor; though I don’t believe they would agree about the salt,” the captain muttered to himself.

“The salt solution cleaned out the wounds and prevented infection from settling in. So, while it was indeed quite painful, the salt and the water did keep the wounds clean… and probably saved their lives.”

“Well, we may never learn who those monsters were that tormented them, or who hired them, since they were all killed,” Captain Tréville said.

“It is too bad all of them were killed.” Doctor Berteau stated as he finished with the bandaging. “Those men took valuable information with them to the grave; you may never know who hired those tormentors to bring such suffering to your men.”

“Oh, but I do intend to find out who it was that hired those tormentors,” Tréville spat with an incensed growl. “I won’t stop looking until I find out who it was and then I’ll make him pay for what he did to my men.”

*****

**Hallway, Returning to room of Athos and Aramis:**

“Captain Tréville, I have some good news for you,” Steward Fontaine announced in the hallway.

“What is it, Steward?” The captain was visibly fatigued from maneuvering between four men and four emotionally exhausting surgeries.

“I have just learned that Gaston, Duke of Orléans and Marie de Hautefort will be arriving at the château early tomorrow morning; they are both aware that you and your Musketeers are here and they look forward to meeting you.”

“Thank God,” Captain Tréville scrubbed a hand over his face, overcome with relief. “At last, I will find out if this mission was worth it. Our part in this mission is complete only when I see Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort and place a letter in her hand-- a letter which nearly cost my men their lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early description of traumatic pneumothorax secondary to rib fractures appears in Imperial Surgery by Turkish surgeon Şerafeddin Sabuncuoğlu (1385–1468), which recommended a method of simple aspiration, _mihceme._
> 
> The chest tube was unknown in the 15th century, but one of Sabuncuoglu's management methods was ahead of its time with a procedure known as "mihceme" (aspiration by negative pressure).
> 
>  **Mihceme** is a "cupping therapy" that has been in traditional use in China, Egypt, and Turkey since ancient times—a procedure in which the skin is incised and blood is drawn by suction. Customarily, an flammable object, such as a piece of cotton, was set on fire inside a glass bowl to burn the oxygen to create a vacuum. The bowl was then turned upside down over the open wound to suck out excess fluids and air from the wound. Sabuncuoglu recommended mihceme especially in instances of rib fractures which collapsed the lung with fluid in the pleura, or pneumothorax aspiration. He indicates that this management gave good results.
> 
>  ****** It was common practice to wrap rib injuries with compression bandages but it is now known to cause worse injury! Don't wrap broken ribs with compression wraps or bandages, even if it decreases pain. Wrapping broken ribs may prevent a patient from taking deep breaths and may increase chances of developing pneumonia.


	17. The Plan is a Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You had better pray for this plan to be a success or we will all be killed; none of us will be safe. Once this letter is delivered, there is no turning back.” 
> 
> “I don’t plan to turn back, Marie,” Gaston resolved. “Besides, it’s too late to turn back now. We must succeed—or we will die trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the secret of the letter is revealed... the plan is a GO!

“Gaston, Duc d’Orléans!” Steward Fontaine announced in the courtyard of the château as the duke stepped out of the carriage.

“Your Grace.” Captain Tréville bowed in respectful greeting of the duke, brother to King Louis XIII.

“Captain Tréville, of the King’s Musketeers, I presume?” The Duke of Orléans asked, looking the captain over from head to toe. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” the captain nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“The king speaks very highly of you as Captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers, I must say.” Duke Gaston circled around the captain, as though inspecting him. “Indeed, I have heard a great many good things about the Musketeers.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The captain bowed his head again, waiting patiently where he stood as the duke turned back toward the carriage.

“Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort.” Steward Fontaine announced as he received her hand, assisting her down the steps of the carriage; he led her to stand beside Duke Gaston. 

“Mademoiselle de Hautefort,” the captain greeted as he kissed her proffered hand. “I am very pleased to finally meet you.”

“As I am pleased to finally meet you, Captain Tréville.” Marie’s blue eyes danced as she smiled at the Captain of the Musketeers. “We have much to discuss, Monsieur.”

Steward Fontaine bowed and prompted the group to go inside with a sweeping gesture toward the door. Duke Gaston and Marie led the way into the château with Captain Tréville and Steward Fontaine following closely behind. 

“Your Grace, you can meet with your guests in the study.” Steward Fontaine led the group to the large room with walls of deep brown wood, sparsely decorated with oil paintings of royal ancestors and other family members. Ornately carved wooden beams accentuated the high vaulted ceilings, giving the room a very masculine and stately feel. The soft sound of a log crackling in the opulent fireplace echoed off the high ceiling, warming the large room to the perfect temperature.

“Would you and your guests like any tea or wine to drink, Your Grace?” The steward inquired of the duke before turning to the others to ask about refreshments.

“No, Steward Fontaine,” the duke answered for everyone. “I believe we are all fine, thank you.” Duke Gaston waved off the offer of drinks. “Leave us, please, and see to it that we are not disturbed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Steward Fontaine shut the double doors, leaving the group of three alone.

“I believe you have something for me, Captain Treville.” Mademoiselle de Hautefort smiled, getting right down to business.

“Yes, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, I do.” Captain Tréville pulled the folded and wrinkled letter from his doublet pocket. “I apologize for the condition of the letter but it had to be concealed in a very small space to prevent it from being found.”

“I heard that your men were captured and tortured,” the pretty lady said softly as she took the letter from the captain.

“Yes, two of my men endured much suffering after they were ambushed, though they never revealed the whereabouts of the letter—as per the orders of the king,” Captain Tréville replied resolutely.

“Your men carried out their duty valiantly, Captain,” de Hautefort whispered softly. “I cannot express to you enough the extreme importance of keeping these letters secret. If they had gotten into the wrong hands, the consequence would be devastating.” 

“I understand, Mademoiselle,” the captain nodded. “The king stressed the importance of keeping the letter secret and I do not ever wish to let the king down when entrusted on such a crucial mission.”

“I should like to meet the two gallant Musketeers who remained brave—yet silent—while being tortured so cruelly.” 

“Yes, I am sure Porthos and d’Artagnan would be happy to meet you, Mademoiselle,” Captain Tréville agreed politely.

“Yes, well, I am sure we can arrange meetings with everyone at a later time.” Duke Gaston interrupted as he grew impatient to move on to details of a more private nature. “However, for the moment, Mademoiselle de Hautefort and I have business to discuss _privately,_ if you please, Captain.” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” Captain Tréville nodded, understanding it was time for him to take his leave. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, it was a pleasure.” The captain kissed her proffered hand and returned her smile. “Thank you, Your Grace." Tréville bowed before the duke then turned on his heel to leave the room.

Shutting the door behind him, Captain Tréville blew out a breath of relief as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Thank God, that’s over," the captain grumbled. "I don’t like this; there is something _odd_ about their behavior." Tréville walked upstairs toward the bedchambers when he paused. "The mystery of that envelope is growing ever darker—Mademoiselle de Hautefort said _‘these letters'.”_

_Were there two letters in that envelope when the king only spoke of one? Is the king trying to be discreet, or are Mademoiselle de Hautefort and Duke Gaston hiding something? What in the hell is in those letters that nearly got my men killed? I’m going to get to the bottom of this—so help me,_ the captain swore to himself. 

*****

“You fool!” Duke Gaston snapped. “Do you realize that you mentioned _both_ letters to the captain? Let us both hope the captain is not clever enough to have caught that little slip of your tongue, Marie; I would think in your line of work that you wouldn’t make such careless mistakes. Considering the severity of the stakes between the people involved and putting our plan into motion, you _must_ be more careful!”

“I am sure the captain didn’t give it any thought, Gaston,” Mademoiselle de Hautefort replied. “It was an honest mistake that, I am certain, the captain took no notice of.”

The duke snatched the article of interest from Marie’s hand and hastily tore open the sealed envelope to look inside. Finding two neatly folded letters, Duke Gaston closed his eyes with relief. “I believe this letter is for you.” The duke handed off the second letter after seeing the salutation addressed to Marie.

Gaston, Duke de Orléans sat down behind his large desk to begin reading the letter, so anticipated and desperately sought after that a group of thugs felt it worth torturing and killing for. 

_Dear Gaston,_  
_Please forward this letter to my brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, as he has the influence to persuade Ambassador Mirabel to raise sufficient troops for the invasion._

_My Dearest Brother,_

_It has come to my attention that my husband suspects an impending invasion of Spanish troops entering France from the south—all routes from Spain must be avoided at all cost. I will leave it to the Ambassador and you as a military commander to choose the best, least expected route on which your troops will travel to avoid detection._  
_You must enforce a solution to political events leading to war at the sword’s point, rather than by the pen of the diplomatist, dear brother._  
_We must not waste any further time but put this plan into action immediately if we wish it to succeed. Please inform me immediately of your intentions._  
_Your Beloved Sister,_

_Anne_

 

“My God, Marie, this is it!” Gaston exclaimed, standing abruptly. “We must deliver this letter to Ferdinand as soon as possible; it’s time to put our plan put into action.” The duke smiled wryly.

“I can’t believe the _nerve_ of Louis!” Marie huffed with disgust. “He wants me to spy on Anne, informing him of what she talks about and _who_ she corresponds with. The king must be out of his mind if he thinks I’m going to spy on Anne, especially when she already has so few people she can trust. I have the confidence of the king, and I do work for him in a secretive manner, but I will _not_ do this!”

“Marie, did you hear what I said?” Gaston shook his head. “This matter here,” he held up the letter, “is far more critical and time-sensitive than the king asking you to spy on his wife.”

“I’m sorry, Gaston,” she apologized. “What did you say?”

“I said we must deliver this letter promptly to the Cardinal-Infante,” Gaston’s irritation was clear. “Prepare to travel immediately,” he ordered. “We must deliver this letter to Spain and begin our plans for the invasion; the time has come to put our plan into action.”

Marie took the letter from Duke Gaston and read it with her mouth agape in surprise. “I will summon Pierre and we will leave at once.” Marie paused as she stood to leave. “You had better pray for this plan to be a success or we will all be killed; none of us will be safe. Once this letter is delivered, there is no turning back.” 

“I don’t plan to turn back, Marie,” Gaston resolved. “Besides, it’s too late to turn back now. We must succeed; or we will die trying.”

*****

_Athos' breathing was labored and raspy, but at least he wasn't gasping for air anymore. The fight to breathe left him weak, sapping more life out of him. No longer able to keep his drooping eyes open, he let them slide shut._

_"Don't you dare go to sleep on us," Aramis ordered. "You stay with us; you stay awake!" Aramis took Athos' hand, "I'm not letting go," he squeezed hard. "Don't you let go either!"_

_A tear spilled from Athos' eye, dripping onto the pillow._

_Aramis and Porthos stared at each other with wide eyes, listening to the rattling sound coming from deep inside Athos' chest as he breathed._

_"Don't do this, Athos," Aramis whispered in his ear. "Please, don't leave us, brother. What will we do without you?"_

_"Athos, please," Aramis begged in his friend's ear. "Please don't leave me alone."_

_A tear slipped from Athos' left eye and rolled across the bridge of his nose to drip down onto the pillow._

_"I never had a brother, not 'til you and 'Mis and d'Artagnan. Now I have three; we're a family, Athos. We can't lose you," Porthos pleaded. "Please. . . don't do this—don't leave us."_

_"I l-l'v youuuu. . ." Athos said, taking one last breath._

_Athos was gone._

_His green eyes were open—unseeing and empty._

_The unseeing eyes stared ahead at nothing. Unshed tears collected in lifeless eyes now spilled out, rolling down the cheeks to catch in the soft beard._

“No!” Aramis screamed, sitting bolt upright only to fall back against the soft bed with a howl as wrenching pain jolted through his ribs. “God no, Athos. . .” Aramis grieved, turning his face into his pillow to muffle the sobs. “Please. . . no!”

“Aramis!” a voice in the fog shouted. “Aramis!” the ‘voice’ was now shaking the medic by his shoulders. “Aramis, wake up!” Doctor Molyneux bellowed. “You were having a bad dream, Aramis. Son, it was just a dream.” 

“Athos died. . .”

“Athos is not dead, Aramis.” Molyneux pointed toward the sleeping form of Athos on the nearby bed. “He’s right over there, on the bed; I can see him breathing from here. You had _that_ dream again, didn’t you?”

“Doctor, why does that dream keep haunting me?” Aramis crunched his eyes closed then covered his face with his hands. “I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more than just a dream! It’s like a foreshadowing of what’s to come—it has to be—otherwise why would I keep having the _same_ dream over and over again?”

“The brain is quite a fascinating—though little understood—organ in our heads, Aramis. There is so much we have yet to discover about the human brain; it is utterly fascinating to even contemplate the power we hold within our minds.” Doctor Molyneux commented with an apparent sense of wonder. 

“That doesn’t explain why I keep having this same bad dream, Doctor.” Aramis blinked repeatedly as he stared in Athos’ direction. He questioned whether his own eyes were playing tricks on him—that maybe Athos wasn’t _really_ there, lying just feet away from him and very much alive.

“Aramis, the mind is very powerful and will often play tricks on us—we feel fear when there is nothing to be afraid of—yet the mind makes you _believe_ that a very real threat exists. The same holds true for our deepest, most personal anxieties,” Molyneux soothed. “You are so afraid of losing your brothers—and it could be any of the three—but in this specific case, it is Athos. Perhaps it’s because of the gravity of his previous illness that Athos’ death has loomed in your mind with such intense fear, the unconscious mind has picked it up as real.”

Aramis stared at the doctor with his jaw dropped open. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” The medic shook his head, his forehead creased with bewilderment. “Where did that come from, Doctor? Have you been studying human psychological behavior in addition to medicine?”

“No, honestly, Aramis, I don’t know where those words of wisdom came from,” Molyneux laughed. “But I did say that the mind is very powerful, didn’t I? The mind can surprise us—even scare us.”

“How is Athos, Doctor?” Aramis raised his head to peer at the still form on the bed. “When I walked into this room and saw that, that. . . _doctor_ taking blood from Athos’ neck with a _grin_ on his face—I just lost it. There were two or three bowls on the table and another bowl he was filling in his hand,” he shook his head at the memory. “When I walked in, I startled the doctor and he dropped the bowl… God, all that blood.”

“Athos is very lucky you came into the room when you did,” Molyneux replied grimly. “If the doctor had taken one more pint, I don’t believe Athos would have survived. I found that Doctor Bonét had also taken blood from Athos’ arm.” The doctor pointed to his own elbow to demonstrate. “It’s probable that Athos lost four to five pints of blood—he is very weak—but he is alive. In fact, it’s time for his next transfusion treatment.”

“Transfusion treatment?” Aramis repeated, his brow furrowing with confusion. “What do you mean transfusion? The blood transfusions attempted so far have proved deadly,” Aramis panicked. “Surely you’re not trying to transfer blood into Athos…”

“Aramis, calm down,” the doctor held the medic by his shoulders. “I’m not transfusing blood but a saline solution directly into his bloodstream.”

“It’s true, Aramis,” Cécile smiled. “It is time for his next treatment now; would you care to watch? Nurse Maria has been teaching me what she knows about the procedure and, considering my profession, it is a valuable skill to have as it may come in handy one day.”

“Saline transfusion?” Aramis carefully propped himself up higher on the pillows, wincing as pain in his ribs flared. “I read an article about nurses who treated wounded soldiers with saline…” the medic paused.

“Well, Nurse Maria is one of those battlefield nurses you read about, Aramis.” Cécile motioned to the nurse next to her, gleaming with pride. “It’s an honor just to work beside her and learn from her.”

“Oh, really now, Cécile.” Nurse Maria waved off the praise. “You are every bit as good a nurse as I am, my dear.”

“Nurses,” Doctor Molyneux called out. “Shall we get started?”

The doctor and two nurses repeated the procedure of attaching Athos to the transfusion apparatus with Cécile inserting the quill into the vein with steady fingers, though inside she was terrified. “You’re doing fine,” Nurse Maria encouraged. She held the bladder elevated, watching the nurse closely. “Very good!” The experienced nurse praised her protegé once the saline began flowing without a hitch.

“Did you see that, Aramis?” Cécile almost screamed with enthusiasm. “I did it!” she giggled with glee.

“Yes, you sure did.” The medic beamed with pride as he watched Cécile. Soon his eyes grew heavy, and though he tried hard to stay awake, he finally allowed his eyes to close as he fell into a deep sleep.

“Let’s let them both rest, ladies,” Doctor Molyneux smiled. “We could all use a little nap ourselves.

**Later:**

“Why hasn’t he woken up yet?” Aramis’ demeanor seemed especially gloomy after waking from his nap; the worry was clearly evident on his face as he watched his motionless friend.

“Well, I’ve been meaning to wake him.” Molyneux nodded, “I think it’s about time I tried.” Doctor Molyneux placed his knuckles over the patient’s sternum and pressed down, rubbing hard across the bone in attempt to wake the Musketeer. He watched as Athos’ hands twitched in reaction to the stimuli, though it did not fully revive him. 

Aramis watched with wide eyes as the doctor rubbed across the sternum again, bringing about a moan of pain from Athos as he weakly turned his head to the side and went to sleep again. “Come on, Athos, wake up for me.” Molyneux slapped the Musketeer’s cheeks lightly.

“Athos, you have slept long enough,” Cécile scolded. “Now, wake up!” 

Athos moaned and weakly tried to pull his heavy eyelids open but they wouldn’t cooperate. At another slap to his cheek, the Musketeer managed to pull his tired eyes open to glower at the offender hitting his face.

“Well, hello there, Athos,” the doctor greeted. “It seems to me that the last time we parted I specifically instructed you to take better care of yourself with no unnecessary—and potentially harmful—activity, did I not?” Molyneux waited for a reply.

Athos ghosted a smile, allowing his eyes to slide closed again.

“No you don’t, Athos!” The physician smacked his cheeks again, causing the Musketeer to pull open his eyes. “I need you to drink some water for me.” Doctor Molyneux ordered.

The Musketeer’s brow furrowed sharply in protest. “Noo, too tirrr’d.” 

“Athos, it’s important that we get fluids back into your body,” the doctor explained. “You’re going to have to drink a considerable amount of water and juice to bring your strength up again, so I need you to stay awake for a while.”

Nurse Maria held the glass of water as the doctor propped Athos up on the pillows just enough so he could drink without spilling. “Now, drink this water—slowly.”

Athos wrapped his hand around the glass but didn’t have the strength to lift it to his lips. Doctor Molyneux frowned at the weakness of his patient, _this is not a good sign,_ he thought.

Aramis continued watching, his worry growing at the apparent weakness of the once-strong and proud Musketeer.

The doctor took the glass from Athos’ hand and lifted it to his lips; he tilted it just enough so the water would pour into his mouth slowly to avoid choking. After a few minutes, the water was emptied but the effort had left the Musketeer exhausted.

“Go ahead and sleep for a while, son.” Doctor Molyneux pulled the blankets back up to Athos’ chin and tucked him in tight. “I will wake you again in about an hour to drink some juice.”

“Is Athos going to pull through this, doctor?” Aramis asked from his cot, his face showing anxiety and worry.

The doctor sighed—reminding himself who he was talking to—knowing full well that he could not lie to Aramis without the medic seeing through his false comfort. “I don’t know, but I’m going to do everything I can to save him—everything I know how.”

“Help me up,” Aramis demanded with an edgy tone he didn’t intend.

“Where do you think you are going?” Cécile asked with sudden concern.

“I need to get over there; I need to be with Athos.” Aramis grasped Cécile’s hand with pleading eyes. “Maybe if he knows he’s not alone, he'll be more willing to fight. With everything he’s gone through these last few months, he may be tempted to give up too easily; I’m not going to let that happen.” 

“Alright, hold on just a moment.” The doctor approached the cot to help Cécile get Aramis to his feet. “Nurse Maria, if you would pull down the covers on the bed to make room for Aramis,” he directed. “Cécile, I’ll help you get him up and move him, but let’s keep his torso as straight as possible, please.”

Doctor Molyneux and Cécile moved Aramis slowly over to the bed, setting him down on the edge. Carefully the nurse took his legs to swing them up onto the bed as the doctor pulled Aramis back against a mountain of pillows to keep him elevated. In one fluid motion, they had the medic lying down next to Athos, surprisingly without excessive pain to his ribs. 

“Are you alright?” Molyneux asked Aramis with a smile. “You Musketeers are indeed the most stubborn patients I have ever encountered under my care—and the most demanding.”

Aramis huffed weakly at the comment, knowing the doctor was speaking the truth. He smiled at the doctor he now considered a friend. "Yes, I’m fine—now that I’m here.” Suddenly, the medic looked around the room, his eyes growing wide with panic. “Doctor, do you know where Porthos and d’Artagnan are located, are they alright? Please, tell me they’re alright!” 

“Aramis,” Cécile soothed. “If you calm yourself down, I’ll go check on them; they’re just down the hall. I’m sure they are both fine,” the nurse smiled.

Aramis smiled, allowing his eyes to close for a few minutes until the man next to him began to cough.

“God, notttt g’nnnn. . .” Athos curled into himself, wracked with coughs as his breath wheezed through his constricted windpipe.

Aramis pulled Athos close to him and whispered calming, soothing words into his ear. “Breathe slowly… through your nose… slowly in… now out through your mouth.” He drilled the instructions again and again until Athos regained his composure and could breathe easier.

“We may need to set up an herbal steam tent if his breathing and the coughing gets any worse,” Molyneux warned. “If we set up the tent, you will not want to be underneath it with him; it does get unbearably hot.”

“Yes, I remember,” Aramis huffed a breath at the memory. “I sat with him under the tent a while at the château… the _other_ château.” 

Cécile returned after visiting down the hall with news of the missing two Musketeers. “Both Porthos and d’Artagnan came through their surgeries very well and are resting comfortably,” the nurse reported happily. “Doctor Berteau said that he repaired Porthos’ torn diaphragm and he’s doing much better; d’Artagnan’s shoulder is being treated for infection and, so far, the treatment appears to be working and the doctor is hopefully optimistic.”

“Thank God!” Aramis sighed with relief, choking back a weary sob. “That’s good to know.” The medic wiped his eyes and sunk himself back into his pile of pillows. He pulled Athos gently against his chest, so that his friend’s head rested in the crook of his neck. He shook his head at the cool temperature of his brother next to him and frowned. “Go to sleep, my brother. I’m right here with you and I’ll keep you warm,” he whispered. He wrapped an arm around Athos' chest then closed his eyes to sleep.

The doctor pulled the blankets over the two sleeping Musketeers. “Sleep well, brave men.” Molyneux patted each of the Musketeer’s heads. “You both will need your strength to make it through the next few days if that cough gets any worse.”

“God please,” Cécile prayed as she sat beside Aramis. "For once, spare Athos any further suffering; I don’t know that he can survive it anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Queen Anne used to write her brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, often complaining of her miserable life and her terrible and lonely marriage to Louis. These letters were smuggled to him through her most trusted confidantes, Madame de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort.
> 
> The paragraph in her letter to the Cardinal-Infante, “You must enforce a solution to political events leading to war at the sword’s point, rather than by the pen of the diplomatist,” were Queen Anne’s _actual_ words written to her brother.
> 
> Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand was one of the military commanders fighting for Spain during the Thirty Years War and the Franco-Spanish War.


	18. Dreams and Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m back there in my dreams. . . it’s so real,” d’Artagnan cried. “I can’t stop seeing their cold, angry eyes; I hear their voices… and they’re laughing at me."
> 
> “Forgive me, Your Grace, but Mademoiselle de Hautefort has sent me to warn you that there has been a change in plans; a rather large change in plans, Your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you caught the little golden nugget of a hint yesterday! Well, the plot thickens; some new players have come on board, each with a very important part to play in this new twist but I can't give away too much just yet... Enjoy!

**“No!”**

Porthos’ eyes flew open at the sound of a distant scream. The large Musketeer squeezed his eyes closed, shutting out the screams of torture and cries for help while steeling himself for the torment that surely would next be his.

**“I don’t know where it is! Stop… I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”**

Suddenly, Porthos’ eyes flew open again, “D’Artagnan?” Blinking his blurry eyes, the large man looked around the room then swallowed a sob when he realized he was safe; he was no longer chained in the dark, cold cell as a prisoner in the bowels of hell.

**“No! Please, stop. . . it hurts!”**

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos tried to sit up but was held back by the strong hands of Nurse Marta bracing against his shoulders. “Where do you think you are going, young man?”

“I’ve got to get to d’Artagnan; he thinks he’s back in the dungeon!” Porthos writhed against the hands holding him down. “I can help ‘im! I must help ‘im, please.” 

“Alright, I will take you to him, but you must calm down before you tear your wound open again.” Marta scolded the Musketeer as he continued fighting. “Stop, squirming or you won’t be going anywhere!” she warned.

“Please, take me to d’Artagnan’s room… please.” Porthos calmed, obeying the nurse as he relaxed under her strong, firm hands.

“Adele!” Nurse Marta yelled across the hall. “I need your help in here,” she asked as the other nurse ran into the room. “Help me get him on his feet.” Marta instructed aloud as they positioned themselves on either side of Porthos to help him stand.” 

The nurses slowly walked with Porthos across the hall to d’Artagnan’s room then helped him as he climbed into the bed. The large Musketeer pulled the young Gascon into his arms, holding him firmly against his broad chest. “I’ve got you lit’le brother,” he soothed. “We’re no’ in the dungeon no more-- it’s over, remember? Athos and Aramis saved us; we’re safe now,” his voice hitched. “The buggers are dead; no one is goin’ to hurt you ‘gain.”

“I’m back there in my dreams. . . it’s so real,” d’Artagnan shuddered. “I can’t stop seeing their cold, angry eyes; I hear their voices… and they’re laughing at me. They’re laughing while they’re hurting me. God, make it stop, make it stop…”

Porthos held d’Artagnan close as he finally broke down and sobbed. D'Artagnan's battered and sore body trembled with the tears; his entire body shook, despite the strong arms holding him tight. “I know, lit’le brother… I know… but we’re safe now. It’s alright, we’re safe now.”

D’Artagnan continued to cry, unable to speak through the sobs. The Gascon clung to the arms holding him, as though afraid he would soon be torn away for another round of torture.

The large Musketeer wiped away the tears spilling from his own eyes with the sleeve of his night shirt as he drew in a deep shuddering breath. “It’s okay, let it out… just let it all go. We’re safe now… let it all go, li’l brother.” 

Porthos held him tightly against his chest until the tears slowed and d’Artagnan’s breathing evened as he fell into a restful sleep. “That’s right, sleep.” The large Musketeer let his head fall back against the pillows, letting his tired eyes close. “It’s safe to sleep now… ‘ey won’t be comin’ for us no more.” Soon, the large man was snoring softly, clinging tightly to the young Gascon; his arms were wrapped protectively around his brother, unwilling to let go.

Adele and Marta exchanged glances, wiping away their own tears at the scene they had just witnessed. “I guess Porthos is staying in here now,” Marta chuckled lightly. “Let’s let the boys sleep.”

The nurses smiled as they watched the young Musketeer sleep, held tightly in the protective arms of his brother; both men resting soundly at last. The faces that were marred by terror and tears were now calm, finding peace in sleep. For a moment, they could let go of their nightmares from the dungeon and find comfort and safety in each other’s arms.

*****

Aramis was startled awake when Athos began coughing, the shaking tremors against his chest instantly activated medic mode in the marksman. The Musketeer lieutenant tried to pull away but was too weak; the medic easily pulled him closer and held his friend upright to ease his breathing.

“I think we’re going to need that steam tent, Doctor.” Aramis shook his head as Molyneux listened to the wheezing breaths between coughs. 

“Yes, Aramis, I think you’re right,” Molyneux agreed. “Nurse, we’re going to need a pot of hot boiling water, a quilt rack, sheet, peppermint oil and lungwort leaves,” the doctor listed. “Please do ask the servants for help, I don’t expect you to gather and carry all of those supplies by yourself.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Maria smiled as she turned to retrieve the supplies.

“I’ll help you,” Cécile called as she ran after Maria.

“Athos, we need you to drink another glass of water.” Aramis motioned with his head to the pitcher of water.

“No,” Athos protested. “No more. . . water.”

“Over the last few hours you have had four glasses of water but still no urine output,” Aramis countered. The medic stubbornly dug in his heals and refused to give in to his brother. “Now, either you drink the water or I’ll attach you back up to the transfusion apparatus and have the water pumped into you.” 

“No!” Doctor Molyneux blurted, suddenly alarmed at Aramis’ threat. “If you pump pure water into his bloodstream it could kill him. Only saline solution is safe for the blood,” the doctor lowered his voice. “Such are the things we learn through experience, my young friend.” 

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose as he breathed deeply, horrified at even the _thought_ of making such a fatal mistake. “He’s had four glasses of water already,” the medic reported to the doctor with a shaky voice. “Either he has a very large bladder and can hold his urine well or. . .”

“Ar'mis, donn want. . . to talk ‘bout it…”

“Aramis is correct, Athos,” Doctor Molyneux quickly interjected. “After having four glasses of water, you should have had the urge to urinate by now; since you have not, it is a cause for concern. I do not want to alarm you, but if you don’t produce urine soon, it may be a sign of. . .” 

“. . . sign of what?” Athos wheezed after coughing.

“It could be a sign of kidney failure,” Molyneux replied bluntly. “As the kidneys fail, they lose the ability to remove fluid and waste from the blood—which is what our urine is. It’s still too early to determine the certainty, but if you don’t produce urine soon, kidney failure will be a logical prognosis.”

“Great, wha’ mmmore… c’n go wrong?” Athos drawled as he began coughing. He pulled his knees up to his middle and managed to roll onto his side as he slipped from Aramis’ grip. The swordsman turned his face into the pillow with a fit of coughing so strong he couldn’t draw breath. The congestion strangled the air drawn from his lungs as it forced phlegm into his throat, blocking his ability to breathe. 

“God, not again,” Aramis panicked as he heard Athos stop breathing.

Doctor Molyneux quicky turned Athos onto his back then straightened his legs out so he laid flat. “Come on, Athos, dammit, breathe!” Molyneux turned the Musketeer’s head sideways and began massaging the muscles in his neck until he could feel the constriction of the windpipe ease. 

“Athos, please,” Aramis begged. “Breathe for me.”

“I’m going to roll him onto his side,” he instructed Aramis. “I want you to pound on his back to loosen the phlegm caught in his throat.”

Aramis began pounding on Athos’ back between the shoulder blades as Molynuex rolled him sideways then opened the choking man’s mouth so he could examine his throat. “Alright, I’m going to roll him so that his head hangs over the edge of the bed while you keep pounding on his back.”

Molyneux supported Athos’ head as Aramis pounded on his back until they heard the sound of gurgled choking; he then vomited a great amount of water that splashed over the doctor’s shoes and the floor. 

“Ssorry…” Athos apologized weakly, spitting out the phlegm still caught in his throat.

“Don’t be sorry, my friend,” Molyneux wiped Athos’ mouth with a handkerchief. “Spit again,” he instructed, making sure all the loosened congestion was gone. “I only care that you are breathing again; I can always change my shoes,” he chuckled.

Aramis bonelessly sank back against the pillows feeling sapped of his strength; he took shallow breaths in attempt to control the pain flaring through his chest. Tears of relief slipped from the corners of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "Thank you, God.” 

“Are you alright, Aramis?” Molyneux asked with concern as he observed the pale complexion of the medic and the beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“I’m fine,” Aramis replied without opening his eyes or moving a muscle. “I just wish this would end; I want all of us to be healthy again and back at work. I want to hear Porthos complaining about it being too hot and that he hates flies. What I wouldn’t give to be on guard duty at the palace and not here. . . not like this…” Aramis’ voice cracked.

Athos opened his eyes and looked at Aramis with concern at hearing his emotional lament. “I’m s-sorry ‘Mis.”

“It’s not your fault, Athos,” Molyneux whispered to the Musketeer. “Don’t apologize for being sick; you cannot help your condition. Unfortunately, we are going to have to start over again on the water since you vomited most of it up all over my shoes,” the doctor smiled as he attempted to lighten the mood.

Athos’ mouth twitched with a hint of a smile before it turned downward into a frown. “If I dr’nk m-more water, I’ll float. . . away,” the Musketeer coughed weakly and let his eyes slide closed. 

“Ah, just in time.” Doctor Molyneux proclaimed as the nurse and three servants entered the room carrying the necessary supplies to set up the steam tent. “Athos, I’m going to turn you over onto your back again and prop you up against the pillows; I want you to drink some more water. Once you’re done, we’ll get this tent set up and begin your herbal therapy.”

Looking over at Aramis, the doctor smiled with compassion. The medic had fallen asleep, weary from the recent emotional drain putting such strain on his physical injuries.

Athos saw his sleeping friend as he was being turned over and his breath hitched in his throat at the sight. “Damn, Aramis…” 

“Aramis!” Cécile gasped in alarm as she noticed the pale complexion and his sad demeanor, even in sleep. “Doctor, what happened while we were gone?”

“Nothing, Cécile, he’s just tired,” the doctor said, avoiding the question. “Aramis needs his rest and he needs to give his ribs a chance to heal; I’m sure he’ll feel much better when he awakens. Now, Athos, drink this water while we set up your tent,” the doctor ordered.

Athos’ eyes widened at being told he was going underneath a cover. “No,” he protested. “I want… keep an eye… on Aramis,” he wheezed. 

“Athos, we’ll keep an eye on Aramis.” Cécile squeezed the Musketeer’s hand gently. “I promise you, we'll take good care of him. Now, let’s get this water finished up, shall we?” The nurse helped lift the glass, supporting it as Athos drank until the water was gone. 

Finally, the tent was set up with the refreshing aroma of peppermint and the earthy smell of lungwort permeating underneath the sheet. Athos took a deep breath and smiled as his nose and throat felt the cool zing of the peppermint’s aroma, instantly clearing his breathing passages and chest. 

He rested against the pillows as the doctor pulled the sheet over, closing him under the tent; he could finally breathe freely without wheezing for the first time in days. He allowed his droopy eyes to close, though he felt uncomfortable as his stomach sloshed with too much water. _I’ve never wanted to make water so desperately in all my life. Please, let my body cooperate,_ he prayed as he finally fell asleep.

*****

**Sometime Later at Château de Blois:**

A servant rushed into the château to alert Steward Fontaine that a rider had arrived in the courtyard asking to see Duke Gaston immediately.

“What is this rider’s name?” the steward inquired. “Before I bother the duke, I must know this rider’s name and his order of business.”

“He said his name is Pierre La Porte,” the servant answered. “He said that he was sent by Mademoiselle de Hautefort and that it’s urgent.”

The steward walked with the servant to meet Monsieur La Porte; he brought him inside to the parlor where he could wait until he was called on by the duke.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Steward Fontaine bowed as he opened the door to the duke’s office. “This is quite urgent, Your Grace. Monsieur Pierre La Porte is here to see you; he said Mademoiselle de Hautefort sent him.”

“My God,” Duke Gaston visibly paled. “Send him in immediately!”

“Your Grace,” the steward said. He bowed with acknowledgement and then left to fetch the courier.

“Monsieur La Porte, Duke Gaston will see you now,” the steward announced. “Please follow me, Monsieur.”

“Your Grace, Monsieur Pierre La Porte,” Fontaine announced to the duke. The steward closed the door behind him, leaving the two men to their business.

“Monsieur La Porte, why are you here? You are supposed to be with Mademoiselle de Hautefort on your way to Spain with the letter,” the duke growled angrily.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but Mademoiselle de Hautefort has sent me to warn you that there has been a change in plans; a rather large change in plans, Your Grace.”

“What sort of change in plans?” Duke Gaston inquired.

“Your Grace, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand is coming to the Château de Blois and should be arriving here tomorrow morning.” Pierre La Porte held his breath in anticipation of the coming reaction; he knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

“What do you mean, he’s coming here?” Duke Gaston roared, his voice echoing between the wooden beams of the study. “I was not expecting him to come calling here!”

“The Cardinal-Infante began his journey to France several days ago with the belief that your order of business was too secretive and too important to leave to the uncertainty of secret correspondence,” the courier replied. “The business at hand would be better discussed in person.”

The shocked look on the duke’s face soon turned to a smile as he realized his plan would be implemented faster than anticipated and, for the first time, Duke Gaston felt excitement to see his plan finally unfolding and taking root. 

Should this secret plan succeed, it would forever change his course of destiny. More importantly, the fate of his brother, King Louis XIII, reigning King of France, balanced in the outcome; all was dependent upon the success of Gaston and Queen Anne’s bold and daring plan. It now appeared that by tomorrow morning, he and the Cardinal-Infante would begin putting his daring plan into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lungwort, also known as lungwort leaf, is a natural plant that has been used around the world for a variety of respiratory ailments, including coughs, colds, bronchial detoxification and catarrhal problems. Lungwort is helpful for reducing irritation and providing soothing qualities. It is believed that these beneficial properties are beneficial as a respiratory aid. Lungwort’s high mucilage content is known to be helpful in respiratory conditions, namely asthma and, in particular, chronic bronchitis.


	19. Survival and Bold Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We _both_ wanted to die, d’Artagnan, but we didn’t. We survived... and they got what they deserved.”
> 
> The captain scrubbed a hand over his face as he realized his earlier suspicions that the Duke of Orléans was somehow involved in a questionable secret with the lay-cardinal from Spain. Why all of this secrecy and what it could possibly mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and d'Artagnan talk about surviving; and a HUGE Reveal is given... wait until you find out what Duke Gaston and the Cardinal-Infante have planned!

“Why didn’t you tell me where you hid the letter, Porthos?” D’Artagnan asked in a whisper. “Does the captain not trust me?” he paused for a moment. “Do _you_ not trust me?”

“Aw, it’s not ‘at we didn’t trust you.” Porthos closed his eyes with dread; he knew d’Artagnan would keep prodding until he got the answers he was looking for. “The cap’n had a feelin’ ‘bout this mission— said it was gut instinct—but he just wanted to protect you. I wanted to protect you too.”

“I didn’t need to be _protected_ Porthos!” D’Artagnan snapped. “What I needed then, and what I need now, is to be _trusted._ Why can’t you understand that?”

“And why can’t you understand _why_ we di’n tell you?” Porthos snapped back. “It’s easier to say _‘I don’t know’_ and _mean it_ than it is to lie. For you, there was no burden of having to hide the truth.”

Both Musketeers sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts, fidgeting uncomfortably at the silence between them. 

“Were you ever tempted to just tell them where the letter was?” D’Artagnan asked finally, his tone softened. The Gascon looked intently at the man sitting next to him; he noticed the anguish that flashed through his dark eyes and across his face at the memories.

“Did you think—even for a second—of telling them where the letter was hidden so they would stop hurting you?” D’Artagnan pressed on through the silence.

Porthos looked down at his hands, twisting the blanket absently between his fingers, as he remained quiet.

“Maybe you and the captain were right about not trusting me. . .”

“It had nothin’ to do with trust, dammit!” Porthos growled. “Why can’ you see ‘at?”

“What was it then, Porthos?” D’Artagnan asked incredulously, his temper rising. “I don’t understand; if it wasn’t because you didn’t trust me, then what _exactly_ was it?” 

“You asked if I thought of tellin’ ‘em where the letter was? Yes, I did think about it,” Porthos admitted softly. “I thought about it every time ‘at whip came crackin’ down on me. I thought none of it was worth the pain. I thought I could end the sufferin’ if I just told ‘em where the letter was; but what would I think of myself as a Musketeer if I broke?”

Porthos paused then took a shuddering breath as d’Artagnan waited for his friend to continue. “I wondered what you would think of me if I broke; especially when you were sufferin’ so much pain right along wit’ me. I wondered what Athos and Aramis would think of me and if I’d ever be able to face them again,” he paused a moment. “But when I thought of how disappointed the cap’n would be in me—that I let ‘im down…” Porthos’ voice cracked as tears filled his eyes. “I couldn’t let the cap’n down. . . he _trusted_ me.”

“Aw, Porthos, I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan wiped tears from his own eyes. “I shouldn’t have pressed it.”

“No, ‘at’s alright.” Porthos wiped his eyes dry with the heel of his hands. “It’s good to get this off our chests and then… dammit… we jus’ gotta let it go. I’ve never felt so much _hate_ for someone in all my life,” his jaw clenched tightly. 

“I wanted to die,” d’Artagnan blurted, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t care anymore; I just wanted it to be over. When I was tied to that rack and they were pulling me apart, I wanted them to kill me quickly and get it over with…” his voice trailed as fresh tears welled in his eyes.

“Don’t, d’Artagnan… don’t go there,” Porthos interjected. “We left ‘at place and their dead bodies behind us; let’s leave it _all_ behind us.”

“But. . .”

“We _both_ wanted to die, d’Artagnan, but we didn’t. We survived!” Porthos’ eyes lit up for the first time since they began their conversation. “We made it without tellin’ those buggers a damn thing—be proud of ‘at. Be proud that we _lived_ and be proud that you and I stayed strong. We survived… and they got what they deserved.”

*****

**The Morning of Cardinal-Infante’s Arrival:**

“Steward Fontaine, I do not want the arrival of the Cardinal-Infante to be announced,” Duke Gaston ordered. “I want Ferdinand brought into the château as quietly as possible; we do not want to arouse any undue suspicion from certain guests, especially the Captain of the Musketeers.”

“I will bring the Cardinal-Infante to your study as soon as he arrives, without fanfare, Your Grace.” Steward Fontaine bowed as he shut the study’s double doors, retreating to the courtyard to quietly await the arrival of the carriage.

When the carriage arrived Steward Fontaine discreetly escorted the Cardinal-Infante to Duke Gaston’s study then shut the door, leaving them to their private conversation.

*****

“Your Grace, let us dispense with the pleasantries and get right down to business, shall we?” The Cardinal-Infante walked to the desk and pulled out a map from his satchel. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort showed me the letter from my sister.” Ferdinand tossed the letter onto Gaston’s desk. “I believe I have the perfect location to get our troops into France without notice.”

“I’m listening,” replied the duke.

“I have support from the Duke of Savoy and the Duke of Lorraine to move our troops into France where Louis will never expect—right through the Valtellina Pass.” Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand watched the duke then grinned at his surprise at the suggested location.

“Are you sure using the pass is the wisest route?” Duke Gaston inquired as he studied the map closely. “What of the Treaty of Monçon?”

“The Treaty of Monçon is _exactly_ the reason why we have support from the Duke of Savoy, in particular, due to the insulting injury it caused him,” Ferdinand countered. “If you move troops from Spain through the Pyrenees passes on the southern border of France, I guarantee the king’s army will be ready to stop your army before you reach Paris.”

“I understand the king may expect Spanish troops to move through Col de Portet d’Aspet before moving north to Toulouse.” The duke shook his head, wary of the obvious locale. “What if we move further east and go over El Pas de la Casa at Andorra?” Duke Gaston studied the map and tapped his finger on the point further east but still in southern France. “It is certainly closer than going through Italy, my friend.”

“No, Your Grace, that location would still be too obvious,” Ferdinand shook his head. “Any strategic pass in the Pyrenees is being watched by scouts who can easily get word to the king about approaching troops. The pass through the Italian Alps is not expected to be used for strategic movement of Spanish troops; therefore it is not being closely monitored.” 

“The point you make for using the Alps route is quite valid, Cardinal, but what of the extra time it will add to the mission? The Valtelline pass is over three hundred leagues to Paris!” Duke Gaston exclaimed as he studied the map, now frowning deeply.

“It will indeed add more time, perhaps a week or more, depending on the speed at which we move the troops, Your Grace. However, it is an inconvenience we can manage in favor of success to the mission,” the Cardinal-Infante explained, unfaltering. “I have seven thousand troops—guaranteed—from Ambassador Mirabel, ready to move as soon as we send word for them to proceed.”

“Seven thousand troops,” Duke Gaston repeated with mild surprise. “Will this be enough, Cardinal? If I know my brother, we had better be prepared for heavy resistance from the king’s army.”

“The key to this mission, Your Grace, is catching the king’s army off-guard rather than the number of our invading troops,” Ferdinand argued. “If we catch the Royal Army unprepared for battle, our troops—despite being smaller in number—will successfully seize Paris; then you, Your Grace, may proceed on with your plan to capture and depose King Louis from the throne of France.”

“There are too many variables which can destroy our plan, Cardinal, but I see no better alternative. If this plan proves successful, I will take my place on the throne with Anne as my Queen,” Gaston nodded his head decisively. “Together, we will rule France as an empire that can neither be stopped nor conquered; I will do for France what my brother lacks the courage in contemplating himself.” 

“I would indeed like to see my sister happy,” Ferdinand sighed. “She deserves to be treated better than she has as the wife of Louis. I would expect better for Anne as Queen of France but, according to her letters, she is quite miserable with depression and loneliness.”

“Yes, she has conveyed the same sentiment to me through our occasional correspondence,” Gaston replied. “Fortunately, my mother is starting to see the logic in our plan and may form, at least, a temporary alliance with Anne to carry out our mission.”

“My sister has expressed deep concern regarding your mother taking sides with the king on most occasions, as Anne and Marie have an infamously poor and distrustful relationship. Are you sure that your mother can be trusted?” Ferdinand inquired with a growing sense of disquiet. 

“I believe so, yes,” answered Duke Gaston.

“Not good enough,” Ferdinand shook his head doggedly. “I think it would be best if Madame de Medici is kept unaware of our planned mission.”

“I agree,” Gaston nodded. “The fewer people who know about this plan the better. You mentioned that we have the support of the Dukes of Savoy and Lorraine? Are there any others that I do not know about?”

“Well, you will always have the support of the Duke of Buckingham, of course,” the Cardinal-Infante chuckled. “Or rather, should I say that _my sister_ would have the undying support of the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Yes, Anne most certainly would have _his_ support,” Gaston huffed with an air of disgust. “A temporary alliance with England might prove strategically advantageous for overthrowing the King of France.” Gaston rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “However, I do not wish to have his intentions toward Anne to be the leverage which he would hold over my head as a bribe.”

“Whatever the Duke of Buckingham’s intentions, all matters—even affairs of the heart—can be resolved once you have taken control of the throne.” 

“Yes, well… I would prefer to use an alliance with England as a last resort.” Duke Gaston waved his hand, dismissing the suggestion. “Who else might I depend upon?”

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” Ferdinand snapped his fingers. “The governor of Languedoc, Duke Henri de Montmorency, has offered his own troops and money in your support. As you are well aware, the Duke de Montmorency has quite an exemplary military record; he defeated our army at Piedmont, and he defeated the Duke of Soubise during the occupations of the islands Ré and Oléron.”

“Duke de Montmorency has pledged his troops?” Duke Gaston replied with amazement, his jaw agape. “That is fantastic news, Cardinal.” The duke turned back to the map with renewed vigor. “If Henri will move his troops north, as we move west from Valtelline, perhaps we can rendezvous in Bourges where we will combine our troops and march on to Paris.”

“That is quite brilliant, Your Grace,” Ferdinand complimented. “I will speak with Duke Henri on my return to Spain and will inform you of the details through correspondence. Speaking of correspondence, how reliable is Anne’s correspondence route and her carriers between the two of you?” 

“The queen and I met on an occasion when I was in Paris during which she informed me of her secret correspondence route; she has also revealed to me the names of her couriers as Pierre La Porte, Madame de Chevreuse—although she was removed—and hence replaced by Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort.”

“What of my sister’s correspondence route?” Ferdinand asked. “Is it anonymous and safe from spies who would report suspicious activity to the king?”

“The queen informed me that she uses a secret box at her favorite convent, Val de Grâce, where she has quite an elaborate system transmitting letters; these letters are coded for correspondence to a number of recipients such as myself, the Duke of Buckingham, and you, of course.” 

“This secret box at Val de Grâce has not been discovered?” Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand asked with hesitation.

“No, at least, up to this point in time, it has not,” Duke Gaston replied. “I pray that it remains that way.”

“As do I, Your Grace,” Ferdinand stated with concern. “I will write a letter informing Anne of our discussion here today; the queen should be made aware of the progress, as well as the details, of our plan and how it will be carried forth. I would prefer her approval before we begin such a mission.”

“Agreed,” Gaston replied. “If you would ask the queen, has she heard anything from her informants regarding suspicions the king has of me? If there is any _inkling_ of suspicion from my brother, it will foil our plans—no matter how solidly prepared.”

“I will indeed, Your Grace,” Ferdinand stood and bowed. “I will write the letter and then be on my way. It is too dangerous to stay here under the same roof with the Captain of the King’s Musketeers and his men.”

“The Captain and his Musketeers do not know of your presence here, Cardinal, nor of the reason for your visit; I would prefer, however, to err on the side of caution as the Musketeers are very loyal to King Louis.”

“May I use your writing desk, Your Grace?”

“Yes, by all means,” answered Duke Gaston.

Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand transcribed a letter to his sister, Queen Anne, outlining the plans of the invasion with the intent to overthrow Louis as King of France; he secured it with wax then stamped it sealed with the mark of his ring. 

“Have Mademoiselle de Hautefort disguise herself as a servant girl when she carries and delivers this letter to Anne in Paris.” Ferdinand handed the letter to Duke Gaston. “Now I must be on my way if I am going to stop by and visit with the Duke de Montmorency. Godspeed, Your Grace,” the Cardinal-Infante bowed. “May God grant us strength and success.”

“Godspeed, Cardinal,” Gaston replied with a resolute nod. “Best of luck to all of us.”

Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand raised the hood of his cloak before the door of the study was opened. Steward Fontaine met him at the door to stealthily guide the disguised guest out of the château to the courtyard to where his carriage waited.

*****

Captain Tréville looked out the window across the courtyard; he smiled as he watched a flock of birds land on the stone ground. He sighed, taking a deep breath as he glanced back at Aramis, finally sleeping soundly against his mound of pillows. The steam tent covered Athos, but he could hear the soft snores of his lieutenant emanating from underneath; he smiled, knowing the swordsman was getting the uninterrupted sleep he so desperately needed.

He looked out the window once again then watched with interest as Steward Fontaine escorted a guest to an awaiting carriage. A sudden swirling gust of wind tore at the mystery guest's cloak and blew the hood, concealing his identity, from his head. . . for just a moment. The guest frantically tugged the hood back up to cover his head, protecting it tightly against the wind; but the strong gust had already worked against him. The mystery guest's identity was revealed to the man watching in the upstairs window.

Captain Tréville gasped with surprise as he recognized the cloaked guest as the queen’s brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand. He quickly moved away from the window to conceal himself as the unintentional witness to a stunning revelation; he stayed out of view until he heard the clomping of hooves as the carriage departed. 

The captain scrubbed a hand over his face as he realized his earlier suspicions that the Duke of Orléans was somehow involved in a questionable secret with the lay-cardinal from Spain. Why all of this secrecy and what it could possibly mean? 

Captain Tréville couldn’t speculate as to the purpose of the secrecy, but he knew he must return to Paris at once to warn King Louis of the clandestine assembly at Château de Blois. With no time to waste, he determined that he must leave immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valtelline, in Northern Italy, was vitally important to the communications between the Spanish and Austrian branches of the House of Habsburg. There was constant conflict over the territory, Catholic vs Protestant, which Spain soon took advantage of by gaining control over the pass. Realizing the danger, the Duke of Savoy and France formed an alliance to capture this strategic position in signing the _Treaty of Paris (1623);_ but with the rise of Cardinal Richelieu, French policy changed. The _Treaty of Monçon_ was signed in 1626 giving the Protestants rule over the commune of Valtelline, while giving the Catholics control over the valley—leaving the mountain passes up for grabs. Needless to say, the treaty was widely perceived with indignation by France's former allies like the Dutch, England, Venice, Savoy, and the Protestants. (Notice I mentioned FORMER allies!) 
> 
> The allies felt they had been tricked into thinking France was helping them, but with France under Richelieu, they found that France was only interested in itself. Furthermore, the allies were angry that they were not included in the negotiations. The Duke of Savoy was insulted due to his not gaining anything with the treaty.
> 
> *****
> 
> Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand was the youngest son of Philip III and Margaret of Austria, and younger brother to Queen Anne. His father wished that Ferdinand have an ecclesiastical career so he was elevated to the Primacy of Spain in 1619, becoming Archbishop of Toledo and soon afterwards he was made Cardinal. The title Cardinal-Infante was a combination of his “job” as Cardinal and his duty as a royal Prince of Spain. Ferdinand was never actually ordained a priest, which is not unusual for royalty and members of the aristocracy, but he still received clerical benefices carrying huge incomes along with them.
> 
>  **Note:**
> 
> Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand’s role in this is completely FICTIONAL! Queen Anne did indeed write him, usually weekly, and did encourage him to use his military leadership & command but he was actually involved against the Dutch and the Swedes (Queen Anne’s actual words were included in chapter 17). I just thought it would be fun to include the Queen’s brother and have him along for the ride. All the rest of the events and people will be explained as the chapters progress. (Note that actual timeline and events have been changed and/or combined, with a KEY player missing, due to TV show having killed off Cardinal Richelieu too early)


	20. Thorn in Their Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As you know, my men are being cared for at the Château de Blois. While I was there, Duke Gaston was behaving very strangely—almost paranoid—like he was hiding something of import. A guest cloaked in secrecy, arrived for an obviously confidential meeting held behind closed doors. When this mysterious guest departed, he was again hidden under a cloak of concealment. However, by a stroke of luck I saw his identity, Your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the plot thickens... The FUN aspect of this story has been digging up all the history and learning the fantastic, soap-opera quality events that most people would never know otherwise. Of course, I had to add in my own flair here and there... but there is no greater influence to a Good Story than REAL LIFE!

Porthos opened his eyes and turned to the figure leaning against a mountain of pillows beside him on the bed. He blinked to focus, casting his blurry eyes around the room trying to remember where he was but the strangeness of the room did nothing to jog his memory.

Giving up, his eyes settled on the familiar form next to him, which brought a smile to his face. “Hello, li’l broth’r,” Porthos greeted happily, though confused. “Wha’ are you doin’ here; shouldn’t you be in bed?” 

“I am in bed, Porthos,” d’Artagnan replied, slightly bewildered. The young Gascon shook his head, staring at his friend with concern.

“Wha’ are you doin’ in my room and in my bed then, eh?” Porthos rubbed his bleary eyes with this palms, still only half awake and, for the moment, apparently forgetful of their conversation the night before. The Musketeer moaned from the pain of a headache pulsing behind his eyes, causing his temples to throb. 

“Porthos, have you hit your head since coming in here?” D’Artagnan was incredulous. “This is _my_ room and _my_ bed, which you happened to wake up in, not the other way around, my friend. Besides, don’t you remember our talk last night?”

"Hmm?" Porthos moaned again as his fingers massaged his throbbing temples.

“Are you alright, Porthos?” D’Artagnan became concerned for his friend who appeared to be in obvious pain. “You have another headache? I can call the nurse to bring you something if your head hurts,” the Gascon suggested. 

Porthos’ brow wrinkled in confusion, his lips curled into a frown as he fought to remember how he ended up in d’Artagnan’s room. At that instant, he stopped massaging his head then looked at the Gascon, forgetting all about his headache. “I remember you were dreaming about. . .” Porthos stopped himself short. “We talked about…”

“I was dreaming about the dungeon; we talked about surviving it,” d'Artagnan said, finishing Porthos’ thoughts. “Mon ami, what is wrong with you today, don’t you remember what we talked about earlier?” The Gascon's worry for his brother grew as he watched his brow furrow with confusion; his face grimaced with the pain in his temples.

“You were angry 'cause I didn’t tell you where the le’er was.” Porthos mumbled. He closed his eyes and continued to massage his temples. Suddenly, his eyes flew open as the memories from last night flooded back. "We were talking about the. . .”

“Porthos, why is it so hard for you to just come out and say it?” D’Artagnan sat forward on the bed, glaring down at his friend with impatience. “You don’t have to be afraid to say the word _‘dungeon’_ around me; I’m not going to break down into uncontrollable sobs at the mere mention of that place, dammit! I’m not made of glass and I won’t shatter into a thousand pieces because of a bad dream,” he snapped angrily.

“Is ‘at what you think, d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked softly. “Tha’ I think you’re too _fragile_ to handle the memories of tha’ place? What’s happening to us, brother? I thought we got this out of our system last night. I said we should put the dungeon behind us… but we can’t, can we?”

“It’s rather difficult to put it behind us when the effects of it are written all over our bodies and the nightmares of the torture are stamped on our brains,” d’Artagnan fumed. “Then there’s the way you seem to be treating me, like I’m too fragile to handle the horrific memories; you can't even mention the word dungeon around me.”

“I don’t think you’re fragile, young brother."

“Don’t you think that, Porthos?” D’Artagnan lashed out angrily. “I’m not a child; I’m not fragile, so stop treating me like I am.”

“I never thought you were,” Porthos replied. “You’re a man who looked into the faces of our tormentors with defiance and strength—I watched you.” The large man spoke softly as he looked down at his hands. “You never showed them weakness—you never broke—‘at is anything _but_ childish or fragile, d’Artagnan.”

The young Gascon sat with his eyes cast downward and his head bowed. "Why can’t we get past this anger, Porthos? I feel so much hatred and anger inside, it's hard to be civil anymore.” D'Artagnan fidgeted with a kerchief wrapped around his hand. “I don’t want us to keep fighting like this. Despite what you may think, I am not mad at _you."_

“I know you’re not angry with me,” the large man smiled. “I know what you went through in ‘at place; I went through it with you. I share your pain and I share your anger.” Porthos paused as his voice quivered. “I know you didn’t come through that hell wit’out any scars—neither of us did—but you _did_ come through it, d’Artagnan. You’re one of the strongest men I know.”

The Gascon stopped fidgeting to look up at Porthos in amazement. The large Musketeer didn’t normally bare his soul and his emotions—not to this degree. Porthos didn’t give voice to such compliments often, but today d’Artagnan felt lucky, honored rather, to be thought of so favorably; especially when it was someone he deeply respected and so dearly loved.

“You knew where the letter was and still you didn’t break,” d’Artagnan reminded, grasping the large man’s shoulder. “No, Porthos, _you_ are the strongest and bravest man I know.”

Porthos nodded then turned his head away to hide the tears welling in his eyes, only to have his face turned back toward d’Artagnan. “You don’t have to hide your tears from me, big brother; I won’t think any less of you because of the tears. In fact, I respect you all the more.”

“Thank you.” The large Musketeer forced a smile. He took in a deep breath then blew it out slowly as he wiped away the tears with his sleeve. “I’m really lucky to ‘ave you as a brother.”

“No, I’m the one who is lucky,” d’Artagnan countered. “I’m lucky to have found three brothers when I was alone, seeking revenge for the death of my father. When I was looking only to cause harm, I found brotherhood,” he huffed at the memory. “Yes, I am the lucky one, Porthos; I found a family.”

“We all are lucky.” Porthos clapped d’Artagnan on his good shoulder. “Speaking of our brothers, I ‘aven’t heard how Aramis and Athos are doing, ‘ave you?”

“No, as a matter of fact I was just wondering how they were doing,” d’Artagnan replied, looking into the hallway. “Think we can walk down there to see them?” The Gascon’s eyes danced with mischief as he gave Porthos a wink. “Are you sure you’re up to it, or is your head still hurting?”

“Nah, I’m alright,” he said, waving off the concern. “So, we just walk out of ‘ere with all these nurses hoverin’ over us like mama birds?” Porthos gave a devilish grin. “I like it; let’s go.”

D’Artagnan turned to throw his legs over the edge of the bed when Porthos stopped him. “Wait, are you sure you’re able to walk?”

“Really, Porthos?” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes; he shook his head as he bit back a grin. “It’s my shoulder that hurts, not my legs. I can walk just fine, thank you. What about your chest wound? Maybe you shouldn’t be walking around yet?”

“Rubbish,” Porthos grumbled. “Besides, if anything goes wrong we ‘ave ‘Mis down there to help.”

“Aramis was hurt too, remember?” the Gascon reminded. “He’s probably been banished to his own room so he can heal and not be the typical mother hen hovering over Athos.”

“Yeah, you’re prob’ly right,” the large Musketeer huffed. “Let’s go see if we can find ‘em.”

D’Artagnan and Porthos made their way down the hall, checking every room for their brothers until they came to the room with a tent covering on the left side of the bed. Coming into the room further, they found Aramis leaning against several pillows; the medic slept soundly with his head turned toward the tent.

The two men frowned at the bandages wrapped tightly around Aramis’ ribs restricting his breathing to shallow breaths. Turning their eyes to the tent, they exchanged worried glances. D’Artagnan motioned his chin for Porthos to check under the tent.

Porthos took a breath before peeling away a corner of the tent and stopped suddenly, gasping at what he saw. D’Artagnan quickly stepped forward at his brother’s reaction to also take a peek underneath the sheet.

“Oh God!” D'Artagnan took in a sharp breath at the sight. Athos was very pale and had dark circles like bruises under his eyes; his neck was wrapped with a bandage. “What happened to him?” he whispered to Porthos. The duo frowned as they listened to the soft snoring riddled with occasional wheezing breaths.

“He’s sick, that’s what happened to him.” Captain Tréville grunted as he got up from a nearby chair. “He needs to be left alone so he can heal,” he said. The captain took the sheet from his Musketeer’s hands then let it drop back down to close over the sleeping man.

“What are you two doing on your feet?” Tréville questioned, glaring at both men.

“Um…” d’Artagnan paused. The Gascon's eyes widened as he looked to Porthos for help.

“Cap’n, we just wanted to see how they were doin'." Porthos swallowed the lump in his throat. “We’ve been isolated down at the other end of the hall with no word ‘bout Athos and Aramis, so we came to find out.” 

The captain sighed and let out a huff of resigned breath, “I never could keep the four of you apart when you men were sick or wounded.”

“Captain,” d’Artagnan questioned with concern. "What happened to Athos?” 

Captain Tréville let out another long sigh; he knew they wouldn’t rest until they got their questions answered. “The first doctor, Doctor Bonét, tried to cure Athos of his bronchitis by draining him of four pints of blood from his neck.”

The Musketeers sucked in a sharp breath; the news sent shivers down their spines. The chills quickly turned into angry growls from the men demanding to know where Doctor Bonét was located so they both could do the doctor bodily harm.

“Nevermind the threats, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville warned. “That doctor was fired and has been replaced by our trusted physicians, Doctors Berteau and Molyneux; they graciously performed surgery on all four of you two just a few days ago.”

“Wha’ have the doctors said ‘bout Athos’ chances for recovery?” Porthos asked as he stared at the tent covering his friend. “Why is he still so pale?”

“It’s going to take some time for his system to recover after such extreme blood loss,” the captain explained. “His normal color will not return until the lost blood is replenished with fluids; it may take several weeks of normal pumping and flowing of blood through his system. The good news is that he is showing signs of improvement already.”

“Captain, we’re ready.” A sudden knock on the door with the announcement startled the group. In the hallway stood the four Musketeers the captain had brought with him in the search for his missing men.

“Captain, where are you going?” d’Artagnan asked. He looked at his waiting brother Musketeers in the hall then glanced back at his leader.

“Gentlemen, I must get back to the garrison and tend to my duties; I have been away too long. As captain of the regiment, I have many responsibilities and dozens of other men to look after.” Captain Tréville explained while he gathered his belongings.

“Cap’n, we know ‘at you have your duties.” Porthos looked between the captain and the four men in the hallway. “Why the sudden rush to leave?”

Aramis stirred at hearing the urgent tone in the voices talking around the bed. “Captain’s leaving?”

“I need to get back to Paris, Aramis,” the captain replied, glancing over his shoulder. “I have duties to attend to.”

“It’s too soon for everyone to travel-- for Athos especially!” Aramis struggled to sit up but decided against it as his ribs flared.

“I said that _I_ was leaving, Aramis. I am taking with me the other men who have no need to be here,” the captain motioned to the hallway. “I said nothing about you four leaving; I know none of you are fit to travel. Steward Fontaine is in charge of looking after you gentlemen; he also has the help of the physicians and the nurses. My presence here at the château is no longer required.” 

Just then, Steward Fontaine entered the room. "Captain, your horses are ready.”

“Thank you for everything, Steward. Thank you for taking care of my men.” Captain Tréville let out a long sigh as he looked around the room at his wounded Musketeers. “I apologize for leaving you with this extra responsibility in such a rush.” 

“No need to apologize, Captain,” the steward replied. “I understand you have an important job to do and must return to Paris.”

“You have been most gracious to me and my men, Steward Fontaine.” The captain took his hand into a firm shake. “I will never be able to repay you.”

“No need for repayment either.” The steward firmly gripped the captain’s hand. “It has been my extreme pleasure to host the King’s Musketeers at the Château de Blois; it has been an even greater pleasure meeting the Captain of these fine Musketeers.”

“Please extend my apologies to Duke Gaston for not giving him my regards in person, but we must be on our way.” Captain Tréville nodded to the other Musketeers in the hallway. “Thank you for continuing to care for the wounded men I leave here with you; I hope that it will not be for too much longer.”

“Your men are welcome here as long as they need to recover; unless Duke Gaston says otherwise, Captain.” 

“Take care, gentlemen.” Captain Tréville turned to leave but stopped short. “Listen to the doctors' instructions and do exactly as they say. Oh, and no unnecessary activity!” The captain pointed a finger at each of the three Musketeers looking back at him. "Stay in bed and give yourselves time to heal.”

“No unnecessary activity?” Aramis quipped with a mischievous grin. “Really, Captain, when have we ever. . .”

“I want my Musketeers healthy and back at work soon,” Captain Tréville interrupted. “Perhaps a couple of weeks of guard duty will recompense for your extended absence.” The captain paused to watch his men with warm regard.

“Rubbish, per’aps a couple weeks holiday will recompense.” Porthos grinned but he thought better as the captain glared at him.

“What was that, Porthos?” Captain Tréville asked with raised eyebrows. 

"Nothing, Sir."

“Um, Aramis.” Doctor Molyneux interrupted with a grin. "Might I remind you of what you said just yesterday—right there on that bed.”

“What was that?” Aramis asked. His brow furrowed, confused as he tried to recall whatever the doctor was talking about.

“I believe you said, and I quote, ‘what I wouldn’t give to be on guard duty at the palace and not here'.” 

“I can accommodate that request.” Captain Tréville stated with a straight face, though inside he was smiling.

Aramis’ jaw dropped. “No, wait… I said that when Athos was coughing and was very sick; I didn’t mean it _literally.”_

“Rubbish, ‘Mis.” Porthos shook his head while shooting a feigned glare his direction.

“I will be in contact with Steward Fontaine regularly, should anything happen requiring my presence.” Captain Tréville informed his men. “Just get well, gentlemen.” The captain turned on his heel to join with his group of Musketeers waiting in the hall; Steward Fontaine then escorted them to their horses in the courtyard.

“What’s with the urgency to get back to Paris?” d’Artagnan asked. “Did anyone else notice how strange the captain was acting, is there something going on?”

“Yeah, I noticed it alright.” Porthos nodded, feeling rather cross. “Somethin’ strange is goin’ on or he wouldn’t have left us in such a hurry.”

“Well, it has to be something big,” Aramis shrugged. “Unless we’re just being paranoid and he really does need to return to his duties at the garrison.”

“Rubbish, I don’t buy it,” Porthos disagreed.

“I don’t buy it either,” d’Artagnan huffed. “So what do we do now?”

“Keep our ears open for what people are talking about around here,” Aramis suggested. “Maybe someone will slip up with the latest gossip and give us a clue to what is going on outside the château; perhaps something is stirring in Blois.”

*****

**Sometime Later, At Royal Palace with King Louis:**

Captain Tréville was escorted into the throne room where Rochefort was briefing King Louis on the duty assignments and security details in regard to the upcoming parade. The king was looking rather bored with the details of the report and began counting candles in the chandelier above his head to amuse himself.

“Ah, Captain Tréville, how wonderful to see you!” King Louis cheerfully greeted; he welcomed the distraction from the boring briefing. “I trust that your men—my Musketeers—are recovering from their grievous injuries?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Captain Tréville respectfully bowed his head. “Your Musketeers are receiving care from the best physicians in France; they are in good hands, Sire.”

“Excellent, Captain,” the king replied with a clap of his hands. “That is very good news, though I am sure you did not come here to give me a progress report on your men, am I correct?”

Captain Tréville looked to Rochefort who was listening attentively; though he pretended to be engrossed in the assignment list.

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” Tréville glared at Rochefort. “The purpose of my visit is for your ears _only,_ Sire.” 

“Of course, Captain.” King Louis turned to Rochefort then waved him off, as though brushing away a fly. “Leave us, Rochefort.”

“Your Majesty.” The First Minister bowed before turning on his heel to exit out the double doors leading to the council chambers.

Captain Tréville watched Rochefort as he departed, not certain the cunning man had left earshot of the throne room.

“Captain Tréville?” King Louis broke through the captain’s concentration on the wily man who had just departed. “I am on a schedule,” he reminded with growing annoyance. “What is the purpose of this meeting?”

“I apologize, Your Majesty.” The captain frowned then took a deep breath. _I had better be right about my suspicions of Duke Gaston and the Cardinal-Infante. If I am wrong, this could lead to serious implications with charges of treason… and possibly, death._

“Captain…?”

“I have some information that may be very important to Your Majesty,” he paused.

“Go on, Captain.” King Louis nodded.

“As you know, my men are being cared for at the Château de Blois. While I was there, Duke Gaston was behaving very strangely—almost paranoid—like he was hiding something of import. A guest cloaked in secrecy arrived for an obviously covert meeting held behind closed doors. When this mysterious guest departed, he was again hidden under a cloak of concealment. However, by a stroke of luck I saw his identity, Your Majesty.”

“Well, Captain, who was it?” The king was sitting on the edge of his throne in anticipation of the revelation.

“The guest was Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, Your Majesty.”

King Louis’s jaw dropped in shock at the name; silently, he stared at the captain with wide eyes. “What business would my brother, Gaston, have with my wife’s brother, the Cardinal-Infante of Spain?”

“I do not know, Your Majesty,” the captain replied, shaking his head. “Duke Gaston’s behavior was _very_ suspicious, Sire. I thought you should be informed; I cannot begin to speculate on what the purpose of such a clandestine meeting would be.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.” King Louis stood to his feet in anger. “I must find out what the purpose of their meeting was at once!”

From the connecting waiting room, Queen Anne gasped. She quickly covered her mouth to keep from crying out and giving away her hidden presence. “Oh God, I have to warn Gaston and my brother! I must get a letter to the château immediately.” The queen quietly tiptoed away from her hiding place then ran down the hallway.

Rochefort grinned from his place behind the double doors in the council chambers. “If only I could have gained that letter from those useless morons I hired; I would then have proof of the queen’s involvement in a possible conspiracy against the king. At last, I would have the damning and irrefutable proof to have charges of treason brought against the queen; the only possible outcome would be death.”

Turning to the hallway, Rochefort saw the retreating hem of the queen’s dress as she rounded the corner. “Ah, where are you off to in such a hurry, my Queen?” The devious man grinned.

“Was she listening to the king’s conversation? How perfect; she herself will lead me to her secret correspondence box and I will finally have the damning evidence I need.” Rochefort gave a diabolical laugh. “All the delicious details wrapped up in one convenient package with Queen Anne conspiring against King Louis. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect gift of revenge," he whispered. "Along with the queen, I will have the queen’s brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand and the king’s brother, Duke Gaston. Oh, this is indeed, perfect.”

“Whatever it is they are planning, they won’t get away with it.” Rochefort set out quickly to follow Queen Anne. “I will be seen as the hero who stopped a conspiracy against King Louis XIII. Indeed, a conspiracy orchestrated by his own wife, the Queen of France.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1626 Duke Gaston refused a proposed marriage, encouraged by King Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu, to Mademoiselle Marie Montpensier. The union to Marie de Bourbon, Duchesse de Montpensier would bring significant wealth into the family of Louis XIII.
> 
> The king was backed by his First Minister Cardinal Richelieu, who had also been reducing the power of the nobility and consolidating central authority around the king without his knowledge. A conspiracy was formed to depose King Louis from the throne and give the crown to Gaston instead; the conspirators against the king and Richelieu extended as far as England and Spain, including Duke Gaston and Queen Anne of Austria, who is thought to have played a critical role in organizing the conspirators.
> 
> The juicy details of the conspiracy are cataloged in H. Noel Williams’ _A Fair Conspirator Marie De Rohan, Duchesse De Chevreuse._ At some point, Richelieu caught wind of the conspiracy against the throne. Lest their plot be found out, the conspirators encouraged Duke Gaston to initiate a war; this was particularly true of the Comte de Soissons, who posted a reward should the duke take up arms against his brother. 
> 
> **NOTE:** The timeline is in the story is a tad off, as is the KEY player trying to take down the conspirators, Rochefort. The KEY player who actually uncovered the plot and took them down was Cardinal Richelieu.


	21. Val-de-Grâce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your Majesty, it is quite possible that they may try an assault on _both_ fronts, along the southern border _and_ along the eastern border,” Captain Tréville pointed to the most likely routes on the map. “If that happens, Sire, we had better be prepared to stop them… or they just might succeed in reaching Paris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> King Louis, Captain Tréville and the Royal Advisors plan to stop the conspiracy before it begins, while Queen Anne also rushes to put a stop to it... but for very different reasons. Is it too late?

“Fetch my driver, quickly!” Queen Anne ordered one of her Ladies-in-waiting. “I want my carriage ready as soon as I finish this letter.” The queen rushed to her writing desk in her bed chamber to write the cryptic letter; she thought hard of how to carefully word the message. 

“I will address this letter to my brother, in the event of it being seized by His Majesty’s hired goons. I shall include nothing to incriminate either myself or Ferdinand in it,” the queen whispered to herself as she began writing. 

_My Dear Brother, Ferdinand,_

_I deeply apologize, my dear brother, but your visit to Paris will have to wait. We can reschedule a visit for another time when it is more convenient._  
_Until we see each other again._  
_Your Most Loving Sister,_

_Anne_

“Maria, please, go at once and find Pierre,” the queen asked her most trusted Lady-in-waiting. “I need him to take this letter to Château de Blois for Duke Gaston. I will drop it off at the abbey, in my secret box; Pierre will know where to look for it. Go quickly!”

Anne rushed outside to the waiting carriage with the letter hidden in her stocking. “I must get to Val-de-Grâce, quickly,” the queen ordered the carriage driver. 

As the carriage pulled away from the palace, someone was watching from behind an arched pillar in the shadows of the breezeway; he waited to follow on horseback as soon as the carriage departed. Comte de Rochefort followed behind the carriage a safe distance away, staying out of sight by blending in with the movement of the carriages and horses on the dusty, busy streets of Paris. 

Rochefort kicked his horse into a gallop as the carriage turned a corner then disappeared from sight. His heart raced as he frantically searched for the carriage carrying the queen; his eyes scanned every vehicle until they rested on the familiar royal carriage. He sighed with relief as he once again assumed his position behind the queen, silently stalking Her Majesty. 

The villainous man grinned with satisfaction as he once again kept pace with the carriage until it arrived in front of the exquisite abbey she so favored. The queen rushed from the carriage to run up the stone steps of the abbey, through the large double doors and into the unfinished chapel. She paused, checking in all directions for anyone who might recognize her before she continued on, but there was no one. 

The unfinished interior was scattered with building materials and equipment; the clutter defied the grandeur the queen envisioned for the Val-de-Grâce. Tall stone arches aligned both sides of the chapel and rose grandly to a massively high ceiling. The unpainted dome appeared dull and uninspiring as it had yet to be graced with the beauty of an artist’s brush. The many rectangular windows encircling the dome allowed the sunshine to pour in, but it only highlighted the empty canvas of the dome’s ceiling.

At the front of the chapel were steps leading to a half-circle shaped chancel; upon which sat an empty platform, void of any reverent display—even an altar. Six marble pedestals stood vacant of the pillars that would one day enclose the altar in a circle of grandeur; the pillars would one day take the eyes of the worshipper upward to ornate high ceilings.

Queen Anne rushed to the front of the chapel then exited to the right of the chancel through an arched doorway to the sacristy, where the worship supplies would be stored. She pulled out a drawer of the elegantly carved wooden repository to retrieve her pewter jewelry box; she hugged it close to her chest as she sat down on a nearby chair. 

The queen unfastened from her neck a long silver necklace holding a tiny key. She placed the key inside the lock of the pewter box and turned it until she heard the familiar _click;_ she then opened the lid and placed her secret letter inside. “Please, Pierre, be quick about delivering this letter to Duke Gaston, before it’s too late.” Queen Anne quickly closed the box, locked it and then replaced it inside the drawer of the repository. 

Checking to make sure that she wasn’t followed, Anne rushed through the chapel to the outer doors and then down the steps to her waiting carriage. “Let us quickly return to the palace,” the queen ordered, “before the king realizes that I am missing.” 

As the carriage pulled away from the stately abbey, Rochefort slipped out of hiding from the small room to the left of the chancel. The scheming man began to make his way across the chapel when he heard voices coming from outside the abbey doors.

Rochefort quickly ducked back into the small room where he watched a hooded man walk toward the sacristy then disappear into the room for several minutes. Returning from the room, the cloaked man rushed through the chapel then stopped at the double doors to peek outside; he scanned the vicinity, looking for suspicious loiterers or anyone watching for his escape. Satisfied, Pierre ran down the stairs to his waiting horse.

The cloaked man raced away, down the dirty streets of Paris on a desperate mission of which only he and the queen knew. Rochefort cursed the speed of the unknown man as he rushed from the abbey to his hidden horse then gave chase after the mysterious courier.

If Rochefort could catch up to the cloaked man and retrieve the queen’s secret letter to Duke Gaston, the First Minister would finally have the damning evidence required to prove charges of treason against Queen Anne and the duke. Ah, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand may yet prove to be the perfect unintended ally in bringing Spain and France into war, forced by a most glorious web of conspirators planning to remove the imbecile King Louis XIII from his throne.

*****

**Royal Palace:**

“I want my military advisors summoned here at once,” King Louis ordered the Royal Officer of the Court. “And I want my First Minister, Rochefort here; find him now!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Royal Officer said, bowing.

“And get Captain Tréville back in here!” The king yelled after the retreating Royal Officer.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” The man bowed again then made a hasty retreat.

“Oh, my entire day is simply ruined,” Louis complained. “I was to go hunting today but now my brother and my _wife,_ of all people, have interfered with my plans,” he whined. “They shall both be punished severely for ruining my much-anticipated hunting trip!”

**Later, Council Chamber:**

“Your Majesty, if you want to protect France from an invasion, from whence you haven't an idea where said forces may come, might I suggest that you send multiple scouts out to watch the borders in all four directions, Sire.” The Royal Advisor pointed to the map of France then began listing key points where to send the reconnaissance scout teams.

“From the west, you will want to watch for ships carrying troops into the most likely port cities, Le Havre and La Rochelle. From the north, you can send scouts to the cities of Lille and Maubeuge; and I would also have scouts as backup in Saint-Quentin and Reims to catch troop movements moving south.”

“If the troops are not discovered until they have reached Reims, it would already be too late for defensive action to be taken,” Captain Tréville stated as he pointed to the map shaking his head. “Reims would be cutting it very close—too close, actually.”

“Indeed it would, Captain,” the advisor agreed. “But remember, the scouts located in Reims are simply there as backup.”

“France has been invaded previously from the north with troops coming down from Belgium.” Tréville stood resolutely, crossing his arms. “It would be good to have several scouts watching the northern border very closely.”

“Agreed, Captain,” the advisor nodded as he continued studying the map. “We can send scouts to keep an eye open for troops arriving from Germany in the cities of Haguenau and Strasbourg. As for the rest of the eastern border, I will return to it in a moment.”

“What about the southern border?” King Louis asked, tapping his fingers on the map. “My brother-in-law, Ferdinand, may bring troops with him from Spain.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, it is possible Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand may bring with him an army from Spain; I believe it not very likely, Sire, as it’s too obvious.” The advisor studied the map, his brow furrowed in concentration. “However, they might try marching troops through the Pyrénéees passes into Lourdes, so we’ll put scouts there. Also, they might try the passes into Carbonne, and possibly, Carcassonne.”

“Indeed, Advisor,” Captain Tréville nodded. “If troops move from the south, Toulouse would be the perfect rendezvous point for their army to meet with organizational leaders before resupplying the troops and marching north to Paris.”

“Yes, we will watch the southern border very closely, Captain.” The Royal Advisor turned to his assistant who was busy writing notes. "Are you taking all these points of interest down?”

“Oui, Monsieur,” the man nodded, pointing to his list.

“Very good. . .” the advisor’s voice trailed as he studied the eastern border on the map. “For some reason, I keep coming back to this eastern border.” The advisor stroked his beard as he stared at the map, deep in thought.

“Do you think they might bring troops over the Alps on the Italian border?” Tréville asked. “If I were bringing invading troops into France, where the French army would least expect, as it is the least defensible route, I would choose Italy.”

“That is exactly what I was thinking, Captain.” The advisor’s eyes lit up as his own worries were voiced by another. “I would imagine the invading army is prepared to meet trouble along the southern border where it is expected; in the east, however, no one is expecting troop movements from the east.” 

“At least not since the Treaty of Monçon, which Cardinal Richelieu signed to give equal rights for passage to both Spain and France; neither side has attempted to use the Valtelline Pass since.” Captain Tréville raised his eyebrows as he studied the map. “This may be the place where Spain might launch an unexpected invasion; yet it would be unwise to neglect the southern border…” the captain’s voice trailed as he studied the map intently.

“What are you thinking, Captain?” the Royal Advisor asked. The man took notice of the deep frown on the captain’s face as he stared at the map.

“Your Majesty, it is quite possible that they may try an assault on _both_ fronts, along the southern border _and_ along the eastern border.” Captain Tréville pointed to the most likely routes on the map. “If that happens, Sire, we had better be prepared to stop them… or they just might succeed in reaching Paris.”

*****

**Château de Blois:**

Athos tugged his tired eyes open then blinked repeatedly at seeing nothing but white. Confused, he wondered if he died and his spirit had awakened on a cloud. Perhaps he made it to Heaven after all—but surely not. Of all places for his tormented soul to awaken, Heaven was the _least_ likely.

His ears perked at voices in the distance sounding muffled and strange, like whispers behind closed doors. With great effort, Athos raised a shaky hand to touch the white cloud before him. He watched with amazement as the cloud rippled like waves beneath his fingers, yet the veil remained in place. The Musketeer let his hand drop, exhausted from the effort. With his momentary hopes of Heaven dashed, he closed his tired eyes. The great swordsman knew he had not awakened in Heaven.

“Athos?” Aramis called out as he removed the sheet covering the sick Musketeer. “I saw movement under here but it appears he’s fallen asleep again,” the medic announced, shaking his head with disappointment. “I wish he would wake up, dammit.” Concern for Athos’ deteriorating health was clearly evident in the deep creases on the medic's face.

“Let me ‘ave at ‘em.” Porthos tapped the cheeks of the sleeping man. “Come on, brother, wake up. I haven’t seen your green eyes glarin’ at me for days now,” he teased. “Pull ‘em open; you’ve slept long ‘nough.”

Athos blinked as he looked around the room then settled his gaze on the man annoyingly tapping his cheek. The corners of his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile as he recognized Porthos, whose own large brown eyes were filled with anxiety and unease. 

Too exhausted to hold his eyes open, Athos allowed his eyelids to slide closed. “Uh-uh, rubbish!” Porthos tapped the cheeks but with more effort. “Open those green eyes for us,” he ordered.

“Tap me ‘gain… ‘n I’ll break… your fingersss,” Athos slurred. The Musketeer's slow drawl conveyed a half-hearted threat, though none took it seriously. His tired eyes remained closed, despite the tapping.

“Now there’s the grumpy Athos we all know,” Aramis chimed in. “At least he hasn’t lost his irascible manners or his ill-temper; he always was a lousy patient,” the medic quipped. The good-humored crack elicited snickers from the other two Musketeers.

Athos peeled his eyes open to glare at Aramis, who smiled with satisfaction as his comment aroused a fire within the sleepy man. The medic hoped his gentle teasing would annoy the ill Musketeer enough to snap him out of his sluggish, unresponsive state. 

“Let me go… back to ssleeep,” Athos yawned. "At least while I ssleepp… I don’t have to lissen to your ssmart mouth.” Athos watched the medic feign insult at the comment, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Well, I guess he told you, Aramis!” d’Artagnan giggled as Porthos roared with laughter.

“Poor jest…” Athos’ lips curled with just the hint of a smile.

“I’ll thank you not to sneer.” Aramis cracked while trying to keep a straight face. “Don’t encourage the man.” 

“Don’t… need ‘couragement,” Athos said as his eyes closed once again. “I can keep up with the sssnide remarks…” his voice trailed as he felt the familiar tickle in his throat, knowing what was coming. He groaned then turned on his side as a fit of coughing erupted from his congested lungs. 

“Dammit to hell!” Aramis cursed, seething with anger at the stubborn cough. “Where is Doctor Molyneux or Cécile?”

“We’re here, Aramis,” Cécile said as they rushed back into the room. Molyneux allowed Athos to remain on his side to reduce the threat of choking; the doctor shook his head with frustration as he couldn’t listen to the Musketeer's lungs for all the coughing.

Athos’ face reddened as the coughing stole the air from his lungs, effectively reducing his breathing to desperate gasps. Involuntary tears spilled from the corners of his tightly scrunched eyes as the seal-like barking caused his sore abdomen muscles to cramp and twist in protest. 

“Cécile, we need more of the herbal tincture and another pot of boiling water,” Molyneux ordered the nurse. “He needs another herbal treatment and to be enclosed back under the tent.” The doctor threw an apologetic look to Aramis. “Nurse, please get the servants to help you fetch some boiling water.” 

Doctor Berteau entered the room and made his way to the bedside as Cécile brushed past him. “His lungs are not quite ready for unmedicated air,” the older doctor said, grimly. “Unfortunately, he will require perhaps several more treatments to clear his lungs of the congestion causing this cough.”

The older doctor turned Athos onto his stomach then allowed his head to dangle over the edge; the doctor drew his hand back and slapped the Musketeer hard on the back again and again to clear his lungs. The phlegm clogging his lungs was coughed up and spit onto the floor, allowing Athos to breathe in unrestricted gulps of air. 

“Let’s get him propped up against these pillows so he can breathe easier and get some rest.” The two doctors turned Athos as Aramis gave up three of his own pillows to help keep his friend upright.

“I can bring in some more pillows; we have plenty.” Nurse Maria left to gather more pillows for all of the patients.

After a few minutes, Cécile and the servants brought in a large pot of boiling water with two vials of peppermint oil and lungwort tincture, as well as ground licorice root to add to the pot.

“Doctors, I had forgotten that I had licorice root in my bag so I will add it also to the herbal treatment,” the nurse informed the physicians. “In addition, I brought hot water to make licorice root and honey tea to further ease his coughing and soothe his sore throat.” Cécile prepared the tea then allowed Athos to slowly sip on it until he had his fill.

“Now, we’ll let him sleep as this steam does its work.” Doctor Berteau pulled back the sheet to cover Athos.

Athos turned to Aramis and shot an anxious glance his way. The medic put up his hand to stop the doctor from covering his friend then gently squeezed Athos’ hand reassuringly. “I’ll be right here beside you; I’m not going anywhere. You won’t be able to see me but you’ll feel my hand—I won’t let go.” Aramis nodded the go ahead to cover the sick man.

Athos closed his tired eyes as the sheet was pulled over him; he allowed the steam bath to clear his obstructed lungs as he breathed in deeply. His mouth turned upward with a smile as he felt the gentle squeeze of Aramis’ hand. _I might not be in Heaven, but this is very close._ Athos gave a light squeeze back to the hand tightly gripping his own. 

Athos held onto the hand, clinging desperately for the only contact he had while inside his white cloud of steam, smelling of licorice and peppermint. Aramis gently massaged the tense hand with his thumb until the grip loosened and then went completely lax as Athos fell into a medicated sleep.

The medic leaned back against his new pile of pillows, making himself comfortable as he turned toward the tent. He curled his fingers around the limp hand and pulled it close to his chest; he held the hand against his beating heart as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Val-de-Grâce_ abbey was founded by Queen Anne of Austria in 1621. Anne suggested that an abbey be established with a suitable church so construction began but proceeded slowly, particularly after Queen Anne fell out of favor with the King. The estranged queen spent time at the abbey, always watched by Cardinal Richelieu. Anne did indeed use a secret box inside the abbey with an elaborate system of transmitting letters to her brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand; as well as letters to the Duke of Buckingham and Gaston, Duke d’Orléans.
> 
> In gratitude for her son, Louis XIV, Anne pressed forward with the construction of an entirely rebuilt church and monastery with instructions, "to spare no expense and to leave an eternal mark of her piety." The church was finally finished in 1667 after 46 years of construction. The extended abbey became a military hospital in 1796 while the “chapel” now contains a museum and library of the Army Health Service, the school of the Val-de-Grâce, and hospital staff offices.
> 
> **
> 
> _Licorice root_ has for the respiratory system a soothing and healing action that reduces irritation and inflammation; and it has an expectorant effect, useful in irritating coughs, asthma and chest infections. It also has an aspirin-like action and is helpful in relieving fevers and soothing pain such as headaches. Its anti-allergenic effect is very useful for hay fever, allergic rhinitis, conjunctivitis and bronchial asthma. Licorice eases congestion and coughing by helping to loosen and thin mucus in the airways; this makes a cough more "productive," bringing up phlegm and other mucus bits. Licorice also helps to relax bronchial spasms. The herb also soothes soreness in the throat and fights viruses that cause respiratory illnesses and an overproduction of mucus. 


	22. So It Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This master plan is exactly what Captain Tréville had feared but never, after his many accomplished and seasoned years as a soldier and commander of the King’s Musketeers, did he ever imagine he would live to see such a plan carried out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conspiracy goes into full swing from which there is no turning back; more on the boys tomorrow.

“No way are we goin’ anywhere.” Porthos exchanged glances with d’Artagnan; both men shook their heads defiantly at the doctors telling them to go to their rooms and get back in bed. 

“There’s already one cot in here, and since Aramis is sharing the bed with Athos we only need one more.” D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows, glancing with hope at the two doctors. The Gascon's expressive brown eyes took on the appearance of a small child pleading for prohibited sweets. 

“I’ll go see if I can find Steward Fontaine so we can bring up another cot,” Nurse Maria chuckled. 

“Good, ‘cause we ain’t goin’ back to our rooms at the other end of the hallway; ‘at’s just rubbish,” Porthos complained, crossing his arms. “We can’t keep an eye on our brothers from down there.”

“Athos is sick.” D’Artagnan glanced at Aramis, still holding Athos’ hand as he lay next to the tented Musketeer. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“There is no point in arguing with this group of Musketeers, Doctor Berteau,” Molyneux advised as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re in a losing battle if you do not give them what they want; I’ve learned from experience. They will not rest except in here where they can all be together; we may as well let them stay.”

“Fine, they can all stay,” Doctor Berteau nodded. “It is good these rooms are so large, otherwise it would be difficult to treat four patients in one small room.”

“Well, you didn’t see the small room at the garrison, Doctor Berteau,” Molyneux huffed with amusement. “Those Musketeer quarters are quite small, yet all four of them stayed together in one room during the catarrh outbreak. In all honesty, I believe keeping them together is what helped them to survive—it certainly holds true for Athos.”

“The rooms there _are_ small,” d’Artagnan agreed. “But there was _no way_ we were going to let Athos stay in that infirmary, or any of the rest of us when we got sick, even if we had to cram all four of us on one bed.” 

“That's right,” Porthos nodded, his jaw set with determination. “That's wha’ we Musketeers do; we take care of each other. We look after each other and we don’t mind sacrificin’ somethin’ to take care of ‘em… our brothers are worth it.”

“Athos is going to need your help if he is going to make it through this.” Molyneux motioned grimly toward the tent. “It’s not catarrh, but bronchitis can be more difficult to recover from than catarrh. There is a risk that the bronchitis could evolve into pneumonia—and we certainly do not want _that_ to happen—so we must step up our efforts with medicine and the herbal treatments.”

“We certainly do not want his condition to worsen, gentlemen,” Doctor Berteau added. “Exactly why I believe this aggressive treatment we are using with the steam tent and herbs _early_ in his illness should help Athos recover, without his condition worsening. At least, that is the hope, anyway.”

“Indeed!” Molyneux clapped the two worried Musketeers on the shoulder. “Athos is not showing symptoms any worse than he had while suffering from catarrh—and he made it through that. Let us stay optimistic, shall we?”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged alarmed glances; their hearts flooded with despair at the thought of Athos having to repeat another painful experience like catarrh. True, he beat catarrh once… but just barely. The Musketeers knew in their hearts that their brother would not have the strength-- or the will-- to fight such a battle a second time. They feared their brother might surrender his will to fight and allow the illness to defeat his indomitable spirit.

The three brothers determined silently that they weren’t going to let Athos give up without a fight; they would unite and do all that was necessary to keep their brother alive. If their leader lacked the stamina and fortitude to continue on his own, well, the three brothers would be his strength and would carry him through. 

“‘All for One’ wasn’t just their motto, it was their core doctrine; it was their heart and soul. The words defined their actions and their love and care for each other as brothers. If one of them was down, the rest would pick up the slack and carry the other until he was well enough to walk on his own. The four brothers would never consider any other alternative.

*****

**The Streets of Paris:**

Rochefort followed the mysterious man until they almost reached the Porte Saint-Jacques gate with the road heading south to Orléans. “Stop that rider!” Rochefort yelled to the gate guards as the courier neared the wall.

The guards sprang into action and blocked the rider, allowing Rochefort to catch up. The blonde man jumped from his horse and yanked the mysterious courier from the saddle, allowing the man to fall clumsily to the ground at the horse’s feet.

Rochefort roughly grabbed the man by his shirt collar to pull him up as he bent down to meet the cloaked man at eye level. "Where is it?” he snarled. “Where is the letter you got from the queen?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man lied as he shook his head frantically.

“Don’t lie to me!” Rochefort screamed as he slapped the man hard across the face with the back of his hand. The courier was thrown to the dusty road flat on his back; he cradled his mouth as blood seeped through his fingers.

“Where is the letter?” Rochefort kicked the man in the ribs, causing him to scream out in agony and curl into himself as he lay on his side. “Tell me where it is or my temper will only worsen and you will soon beg me to kill you!” The blonde man gave another swift kick to the man’s abdomen, leaving him writhing and gasping for air.

Rochefort began searching the man’s person by checking every pocket; he furiously dug and tore at every detail of his clothing. He tore apart the man’s shirt, rummaging through every possible hiding place, but found nothing. Moving on to the courier’s breeches, Rochefort’s fingers slid across a slitted pocket just under the waistband. “Ah, there it is.”

He dug his hand down into the pocket and smiled as his fingers brushed over the paper envelope folded in half. He pulled the envelope out and immediately recognized the wax stamped with the House of Bourbon seal. “Well, well, well… what have we here?” Rochefort held up the letter with a rather smug grin. “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson about lying to me.”

Rochefort once again picked the man up by his shirt collar then punched him with his balled-up fist; he connected hard with the cheekbone and knocked the man out cold.

“Help me get this man up on his horse and secured tightly,” the blond man ordered the gate guards. “I’m taking him into custody on charges of treason and he will answer to these charges before the king.”

 _I look forward to seeing the king’s face when I show him proof that his own wife, the Queen, is involved in conspiring with the Duc d’Orléans and the Cardinal-Infante of Spain to overthrow the King of France._ Rochefort smirked triumphantly as he turned the horses back toward the Palais du Louvre with his prize in tow.

*****

**The Four Corners of France:**

King Louis sent out an emergency deployment order of fifteen thousand French Army troops to be sent to two separate locations, splitting the army in two parts under his two best generals. The king settled on deploying six thousand troops with Lieutenant General Henri Turenne and his second in command, Colonel François de Créquy to Toulouse; while Brigadier General Antoine d'Aumont de Rochebaron and Colonel Jean de Gassion deployed to Lyon with nine thousand troops.

In addition, the king immediately dispatched a company of one hundred fifty cavalry scouts in squads of ten to deploy to every town mentioned on the Royal Advisor’s list. An entire platoon of thirty scouts was reserved for deployment along the eastern border of France and Italy, where the advisory committee believed the invading troops would be marching from the Valtelline Pass.

Captain Anton Colbert, commander of the cavalry scouts deploying to the various outposts, joined the advisory committee for final instructions from the king.

“Where is my delinquent First Minister?” the king pounded his fist on the table. “Where is Rochefort?” King Louis craned his neck, straining to see into the hallway; he moved his head to the left and to the right to get a better view. “I said that I wanted Rochefort summoned!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Royal Advisor nodded. “However, we were told that he could not be found.”

“What do you _mean_ he could not be found?” King Louis whined, pounding the table with his fist angrily. “My First Minister does not simply disappear.”

“Your Majesty, if I may interrupt?” Captain Tréville requested impatiently. “Sire, this matter at hand is very time-sensitive; we must get these plans into motion as soon as possible, as I am sure Captain Colbert would agree.”

“Indeed I do agree, Captain,” the cavalry commander nodded. “If it pleases Your Majesty, I would like to deploy my men as soon as possible.” 

“Your Majesty, may we proceed with your instructions without Rochefort, for now?” Captain Tréville requested.

“Agreed, Captain,” the king sighed with a disappointed huff. “Please proceed on your way, Captain Colbert.”

“Your Majesty, I will dispatch my scouts to their assigned posts immediately,” the cavalry captain reported. “They will be instructed to travel as quickly as possible and make haste to arrive before the enemy has a chance to deploy.”

“Very good, Colbert,” the king nodded. “I want a series of couriers at each outpost in all four directions to send word back to me informing me of their status on a daily basis,” King Louis informed the captain of the scouts. “The company will be relieved of its duty _only_ when I give the word; until then, everyone will stay at their posts and will stay alert.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Captain Colbert bowed low.

“We will have every major route into France being watched,” the king’s advisor said, turning to the cavalry captain. “An invading army cannot possibly get by our scouts _if_ they do their jobs properly.”

“How insulting, Advisor!” Captain Colbert snapped. “They will do their jobs as _expected_ of them. These are good troops; they are quality soldiers and excellent scouts and will not let His Majesty down.” The cavalry captain fumed, glaring at the advisor.

“I want no surprises, Captain Colbert,” the king warned. “With one hundred and fifty scouts there will be _no_ excuse for France to be caught off-guard. Am I understood, Captain?” 

“Understood, Your Majesty,” Captain Colbert nodded.

“Your Majesty, if I may make a suggestion?” The king’s advisor interjected, bowing his head. 

“Proceed, Advisor.” King Louis waved his hand impatiently, allowing him to speak freely.

“Should an invading army be successful in an attack, Your Majesty, might I suggest a punishment for allowing an invading army to slip by undetected. I would suggest the punishment be immediate and final," the advisor glared at Colbert. "Any outpost allowing the enemy to slip by will pay the ultimate price, as will the military commander in charge of these scouts; they should all pay with immediate execution.”

“This is an outrage!” The cavalry captain slapped his palm angrily on the table. “How _dare_ you make such a suggestion!”

“I agree, Advisor,” King Louis interrupted, nodding his approval. “It is decided, Captain Colbert.”

The cavalry commander bowed his head in obedience, though he fumed at the suggestion of punishment for him and his men. Captain Tréville rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly, but not without notice of the advisor.

“Captain Tréville, you do not approve of my suggestion for punishment?” the advisor asked with surprise.

“I understand the crucial responsibility these scouts have in stopping a possible conspiracy, but leaving the punishment of an entire squad of soldiers and their commander to _your_ discretion is unwise,” Captain Tréville countered. “If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, to make another suggestion?”

“What is it, Captain?” Louis asked with a lack of enthusiasm.

“If you agree that execution should be the punishment for failing to alert Your Majesty to invading troops, might I suggest that the deed be left to the army generals in command and _not_ your advisors. These men are not soldiers.” Captain Tréville swept his arm around the table of advisors, stopping at the cavalry captain beside him. “They should not decide the fate of soldiers.”

“You are overstepping your bounds, Captain Tréville,” the advisor snarled.

“And you are overstepping yours, Advisor!” King Louis quickly interjected. “Hold your tongue or I will have you removed from this room… or I will remove your tongue,” the king giggled as his wide smile lit up his face. “Agreed, Captain Tréville.” Louis waved his hand nonchalantly. “If the need should arise—and let us hope that it does not—I will appoint the appropriate military commanders to muster a rifle squad for execution.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Captain Tréville and the cavalry captain echoed in unison. 

“Well then, gentlemen,” the king said, clapping his hands together. “Let us put our plan into immediate action, shall we?”

“Just one moment, Your Majesty!” Rochefort interrupted as he rushed into the room; he had a smug demeanor about him while wearing a sinister grin on his face.

“Where have you been, Rochefort?” the king demanded. “Why were you not here when I summoned you?”

“I have something here that you are going to want to see, Your Majesty,” Rochefort announced as he held up a letter in his hand. “This is the reason why I am late!” The man smirked menacingly, shooting a gloating stare at Captain Tréville.

“What is that?” King Louis motioned with his head to the letter in Rochefort’s hand.

“This is a letter that I found with Monsieur Pierre La Porte,” Rochefort paused, “after Queen Anne dropped it in her secret correspondence box at the Val-de-Grâce less than an hour ago!”

Audible gasps were heard from around the room at the mention of the queen. Suddenly the room erupted into surprised conversation, the almost deafening chatter echoed loudly in the large room.

“I have proof that the queen has conspired with Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand and Duc d’Orléans to overthrow Your Majesty!” he boasted loudly over the raucous clamor.

“How _dare_ you imply such a thing about your queen!” Captain Tréville’s voice boomed angrily. “Is there no limit, no boundary to your relentless scheming against the queen?”

“Let me see that letter at once!” The king stood, pushing his chair back with such force that it fell over with a resounding crash. Rochefort walked to the king and delivered the letter into the king’s outstretched hand.

King Louis opened the letter and read quietly, his eyes scanning frantically over the words. Slowly his brow creased with confusion before breaking into a childish laughter.

“Your Majesty, I hardly think this is funny,” Rochefort spat with dismay at the king’s reaction.

“Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, what does it say?” Captain Tréville glared at Rochefort with disdain.

“My Dear Brother, Ferdinand,” the king began reading. “I deeply apologize, my dear brother, but your visit to Paris will have to wait. We can reschedule a visit for another time when it is more convenient. Until we see each other again, Your Most Loving Sister, Anne.”

The room went quiet, no one daring to speak as they traded confused glances.

“This is your _proof,_ Rochefort?” the king’s disbelieving voice rose as he glowered at the First Minister. “This is your proof that my wife, _the queen,_ has committed treason in conspiring against me? This… this request for a visit from her brother? You must be mad, Rochefort!” 

“Your Majesty!” Rochefort barked in surprise. “Can’t you see this is a coded letter?”

Captain Tréville sunk back in his chair, letting out a breath of disgust. He cradled his forehead in his hand, squeezing with his fingers against the headache now pounding between his temples. “Good God, Rochefort is mad.”

*****

**Later, Carcassonne Outpost:**

Two squads of five each were spread through the village of Carcassonne France from the bank of the L’Aude River on the eastern edge of the village, reaching to the most advantageous and strategic vantage point in the towers of the Château Comtal. 

The lofty stone towers of Château Comtal soared high above the valley giving the scouts a birds-eye view over the tree tops all the way to the foothills in the southern horizon. The view was clear and vast, even to the naked eye, but with the benefit of the spyglass magnifying the distance viewed, it was the perfect vantage point for observing possible troop movement.

Each scout was equipped with a spyglass, paper and ink, and a bell to be used for warning the couriers _only_ when troops were spotted; each scout was also armed and ready to engage in battle, if necessary. Couriers were interspersed with the scouts in the towers to pass along messages to the mounted scouts on the ground should enemy troops be sighted. The mounted scouts were ordered to immediately ride northwest-- should the need arise-- to alert command, waiting with the main body of troops in Toulouse.

Presently, no enemy troop activity had been discovered and the scouts were getting antsy and restless—and bored. Suddenly, scouts posted in the château’s eastern tower spotted troops moving through the trees in the distant southern foothills as sunlight gleamed off the steel tips of their spears. 

“Sound the alarm bells!” yelled a scout to his partner on the tower. “I see movement coming from the foothills beyond in the south!” The hand bells were sounded, instantly alarming the couriers in the tower. A scout scribbled a message quickly on paper as a courier waited to carry it over to the awaiting scouts on the ground.

_Mass of enemy troops spotted in foothills south of Carcassonne, possibly thousands._  
_Château Comtal, Eastern Tower._

The courier ran the message to the mounted scouts who then galloped away, heading northwest to inform the main army waiting in Toulouse; while the other couriers rode to gather up the remaining scouts. 

The two scouts in the eastern tower exchanged worried glances as they watched the army pouring out of the southern foothills; the army proceeded to march toward the walled fortress protecting the village of Carcassonne. Would these invading forces move past the fortress to continue marching north toward Toulouse? 

The scouts were on their way to warn the awaiting army, who would then march south to intercept the enemy. Somewhere between Toulouse and Carcassonne two marching armies-- each with their own desperate mission to fight and willing to die for their cause-- would meet. Surely, a bloody battle was undoubtedly eminent.

*****

**Meanwhile in Lyon:**

The thirty scouts deployed on the eastern border of France were spread thinly as there were several key points where an invading army coming from the Alps of Italy might pass through into France. 

In the small village of Chambéry, in the mountainous region of Savoy, an especially strategic vantage outpost was found at the Château des Ducs de Savoie, or more commonly called by the local villagers, Château de Chambéry, castle home to the Duke of Savoy. A team of scouts set up their observation point in the high tower turret where they had an unsurpassed, lofty southeastern view of the Alps and each of the passes an army might use on their march into France. A second team of scouts had their vantage point from the top of the half-round tower of the castle, giving them a perfect three hundred-sixty degree view of the valley. 

After endless hours of keeping watch, the team in the tower turret sprang to life as they viewed through their spyglasses a mass of troops, flowing like ants from the mountain pass far off in the distance ahead. A flurry of activity abounded as the scouts rang out the bells of alarm to signify the advancing troops.

Soon a team of scouts were riding northwest to Lyon to inform the awaiting army under the command of Brigadier General Antoine d'Aumont de Rochebaron that troops had been spotted and were approaching the village of Chambéry.

Later, when word had been received from the scouts at Château de Chambéry, orders were given to assemble the troops for the final preparations. Brigadier General de Rochebaron stood in front of his troops, looking over the vast numbers of his impressive and mighty army, and nodded his head approvingly.

Standing at attention, the troops stood ready to march into battle and defend their beloved France and her King from those who would do them harm. “For King and Country!” the general yelled; he held his sword high in the air as he mounted his horse and turned south. The French Army troops began their march, following behind their commander, each ready to put a stop to the audacious plan to overthrow, Louis XIII, King of France.

This master plan, a simultaneous attack on two fronts, was exactly what Captain Tréville had feared; but never in all his many accomplished and seasoned years as a soldier and commander of the King’s Musketeers, did he ever imagine he would live to see such a plan carried out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pierre de La Porte was Queen Anne’s cloak bearer and most trusted courier with her secret correspondence. La Porte was indeed captured, arrested and imprisoned at the infamous Bastille for over one year where he was repeatedly tortured but yet he refused to implicate his employer, Queen Anne. Cardinal Richelieu himself even interrogated La Porte and, after not breaking, the Cardinal expressed his respect for the loyally determined man.
> 
> *****
> 
> The French generals and colonels whom I mention are indeed real BUT in order for this story to proceed smoothly, I did take discretion to use these men out of realistic time context, as a few of them would have been just children at the time of the conspiracy.
> 
>  **Lieutenant General Henri (Vicomte) de Turenne:** born 11 Sep, 1611, achieved military fame and became a Marshal of France. He was one of only six marshals made Marshal General of France. Turenne dominated the battlefields of Europe for several decades throughout the 17th century. His death at Sasbach in 1675 was universally mourned.
> 
>  **Colonel François de Créquy:** born 1625, Créquy took part as a boy in the Thirty Years’ War distinguishing himself so greatly that at the age of twenty-six he was made a lieutenant-general before he was thirty. Créquy was regarded as the most brilliant of the younger officers, and won the favor of Louis XIV. de Créquy and Turenne were known as the “Dynamic Duo” of French military leaders.
> 
>  **Brigadier General Antoine d'Aumont de Rochebaron:** born 1601- 1669 He was Captain of the King's Guards and Marshal of France. He worked in many military campaigns under both Kings Louis XIII and XIV, such as in the Siege of La Rochelle and the Siege of Montauban, to name a few.
> 
>  **Jean, Comte de Gassion:** born 1609 was a Gascon military commander for France and reached the rank of Marshal of France at the age of thirty-four. He served Louis XIII and Louis XIV and died of wounds at the Siege of Lens. Cardinal Richelieu commandeered his services as he was one of the renovators of new cavalry tactics in the West.


	23. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I am your guardian angel, it’s my job to take care of you and watch over you. . . ‘at’s what I’m goin’ to do,” Porthos squeezed the hand in his as he closed his eyes and finally drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Promised, here's an extra long chapter focusing on our boys who talk about the dungeon and regrets; while someone loses the will to go on fighting.

In the south, Brigadier General Achille d’Étampes de Valençay led his six thousand infantry soldiers over the hills near the village of Carcassonne. The esteemed general met his pledged ally and promised cavalry of one thousand troops-- the two armies converging into one-- filling the valley just outside the fortress. 

Henri II, Duke of Montmorency, Governor of the region of Languedoc, led the troops he successfully raised from loyal subjects of his region and nearby surrounding regions, including that of the village of Carcassonne, forward into the valley. Merging the two armies into one emboldened both leaders, Duke Henri and General de Valençay, with each daring to command a formidable army in battle against the king. 

The large army of seven thousand troops headed north toward Toulouse with plans to rendezvous in Bourges with Duke Gaston and Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand as soon as they arrived with their armies from the east. The two armies would join into one rousing force that dared to risk their lives for the higher good of France.

The plan for this combined army was to march toward Duke Gaston’s hometown of Orléans, where the duke would certainly be successful in raising more faithful, loyal and unyielding troops. Finally, their massive army would march into Paris; there, they would storm Palais de Louvre and seize King Louis, removing him from power as King of France. 

Once Louis was removed, it would free Gaston, as the next in line for the throne, to take his rightful place as the new reigning King of France. King Gaston, this was a title that the younger brother of Louis desired so deeply he could taste it; this lofty goal drew ever closer to becoming reality as he rode toward Lyon.

Nothing was going to stand in the way of Gaston realizing his dream; he had come too far and had long since passed the point of no return. Gaston was going to take his rightful place on the throne as king, or he and his army would die trying.

*****

**Château de Blois:**

D’Artagnan watched Aramis sleeping as he held Athos’ hand close to his heart; the Gascon smiled, though his heart ached. He and his brothers haven’t had a ‘normal’ day since the ill-fated mission to Orléans which brought them through the Forest of Torfou. 

Now it seemed every move they made was cursed-- doomed to end with someone hurt or sick, or both. D’Artagnan and the Inseparables had been to Hell and back, but what was the limit to a body’s suffering? How much pounding could the body stand before the heart gave up and simply quit beating? Keeping his mind focused on Athos, Aramis, and Porthos was the only light the Gascon had found in the darkness of his mind as he was being tortured in the dungeon.

Thinking of his brothers had kept him alive when all he had wanted to do was to die; when all he had wanted was to be free from the pain. If he and Porthos had not survived the dungeon, how would their deaths have affected Athos and Aramis, who were so desperately seeking them, despite being hurt themselves?

What would have happened if they arrived at the château too late and had found their broken, bloody and lifeless bodies tied to the racks? The sickening thought sent a shiver down d’Artagnan’s spine, making him feel suddenly lightheaded and dizzy. _Maybe I shouldn’t be out of bed just yet; I’m not feeling so good._

D’Artagnan began to sway on his feet, unable to find balance, as the room tilted sideways. He tried to grab hold onto something to steady himself but his fingers found only air as he tumbled to the floor. His vision went black before his head hit the hard floor with a smack; he never heard the screams or the running feet as they rushed toward his bleeding form sprawled on the floor.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos screamed as he lunged to catch the falling Musketeer but was too late. “Oh, bloody hell!” the large man cursed. He rolled his friend over to find blood spurting out from a gash in his forehead.

“Move aside, Porthos.” Molyneux gently pushed the large man to the side so the two doctors could examine the patient. "He shouldn’t have been out of bed; he wasn’t well yet.” Doctor Molyneux shook his head.

“I _knew_ this was going to happen,” Doctor Berteau muttered. “These stubborn Musketeers will not listen to reason and have to learn everything the hard way! If he had gone back to bed, as I told him earlier, he would not be unconscious now with a bleeding head wound and a probable concussion. When will these young people ever learn?”

“It is the price for being young and stubborn, Doctor Berteau.” Molyneux shook his head, frowning as he used a cloth to staunch the heavy bleeding. “Sometimes young people have to make their own mistakes; they have to fall and bloody their knee before they learn that the older and wiser folk were right all along.”

“Let’s get him up on the cot.” Berteau motioned with his head. “Well, that is one thing this young man did right; asking for the extra cot was a good idea and quite convenient.” 

“Cécile, my dear, will you go with Maria and fetch us some water, bandages, and my medical bag with the surgical kit, please?” Molyneux asked. “Our stubborn young man is going to need stitches to close this nasty wound.”

“Yes, Doctor, right away,” Cécile nodded. “It’s never boring when I’m around these gentlemen; they always keep me plenty busy,” the experienced nurse whispered to Maria.

“Is he going to be alright, Doctor?” Porthos asked as he watched the two healers carry the Gascon to his cot.

“Too soon to tell, Porthos.” Molyneux continued his pressure on the bleeding wound. “He’s young and strong,” the doctor paused, “but he’s been through so much recently. Even for someone as fit as d’Artagnan, there are limitations to how much suffering a young body can take; we will just have to wait and see.”

As he watched his young friend, Porthos’ brown eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. The large man swayed unsteadily on his feet then sat heavily on the edge of the bed before he too fell to the floor. The Musketeer leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, as he muttered something unintelligible under his hands.

“Porthos?” Molyneux asked with concern. “Are you alright, what’s wrong?”

“Just gettin’ the feelin’ of déjà vu.” Porthos shook his head, looking over at d’Artagnan. “Here I go again, watchin’ as all of my brothers suffer from injuries; I’m alone, just like at Chamarande and when they had catarrh…” his voice trailed.

“Porthos, this isn’t either of those places,” Molyneux assured softly. “These are different injuries. . . and we'll get through this. Besides, you’re forgetting that you were wounded also,” he reminded. “You’re lucky that knife didn’t penetrate your liver but glanced off your rib; if it hadn’t, you would surely be dead, my friend.”

“Lucky?” Porthos whispered softly.

“Yes, lucky,” Molyneux replied. “Look, I know you didn’t come through this experience unscathed, quite the contrary. You have physical wounds that still need to heal, yes, but it’s the emotional wounds—the wounds that I cannot mend—that still leave you broken and bleeding inside. Do not add guilt where guilt does not belong, Porthos. It is not your fault that you are healing, physically anyway, while they are still sick.”

“God picked you to be their guardian angel because you are strong and tough, yet still gentle and caring,” Cécile said to Porthos as she reentered the room with the supplies. “I think you’ve more than proven your strength to all of us, as well as to yourself, Porthos.” The nurse smiled at the large man, touching his arm reassuringly.

“You really believe ‘at?” Porthos asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” everyone echoed together.

“Now, instead of moping over there, why don’t you come over here and help us take care of your brother?” Molyneux invited with a wave of his hand.

“Wha’ can I do?”

“Well, you can keep us supplied with clean water,” Cécile suggested. “Or just hold his hand, in case he wakes up.”

Porthos appreciated the distraction as the doctors cleaned d’Artagnan’s head of the blood before suturing the wound. The large Musketeer soon had a good routine of ladling out clean water into the bowl and then dumping the bloodied water into a bucket, while the nurse swabbed away the blood from the patient.

The doctors finished stitching d’Artagnan's head, closing the cut above his left eye. “Well, he’ll be wearing these four stitches above his eyebrow for a while; hopefully he won't have a noticeable scar.” Molyneux removed a stray band of hair from the Gascon’s forehead. 

“Now we will all let d’Artagnan get some much needed rest.” Doctor Berteau wiped his hands clean on a towel. “You should get some rest too, Porthos, while your friends sleep.”

“Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” Porthos asked, frowning at the angry purple and blue lump, crossed with four stitches above d’Artagnan’s eye.

“He should be fine so try not to worry,” Molyneux replied. “Lie down and get some rest before you end up on the floor like your young friend did.”

Porthos growled deep in his throat but obeyed the doctor’s orders. He waited for the medical team to leave the room before he got up to pull his cot alongside d’Artagnan so he could keep an eye on the young Gascon. 

He glanced over at Aramis still holding the hand of Athos as he slept then looked back at the young Musketeer next to him. He smiled as he took d’Artagnan’s limp hand and held it against his chest, just like Aramis did with Athos. “If I am your guardian angel, it’s my job to take care of you and watch over you-- that's what I’m goin’ to do.” Porthos squeezed the hand in his as he closed his eyes, finally drifting off to sleep.

Doctor Molyneux poked his head back in the room for one last check; he couldn’t hold back the smile as he found Porthos sleeping on the cot right beside the young Gascon, grasping the younger man's hand. “Guardian angel, indeed,” the doctor whispered as he left the men to sleep.

*****

_The sound of boots running on the marble floor echoed in the large empty castle. As the Musketeers reached a spiral staircase leading downward, the screams got louder. They each pulled out their pistols and ran down the stone steps, following the sound of the screams._

_Feeling along the stone walls, the Musketeers crept down the stairs through the darkness. They followed the screams as they grew louder, but without torches to guide them, they had to feel along the walls through the dark hallway._

_The hallway seemed to stretch on without end; each new corner led to another long hallway. The screams that had been growing louder were now growing desperate. “Athos… Aramis, where are you?” The voices of their friends cried out into the darkness._

_The Musketeers searched, but they couldn't find a way out of the maze; the screams grew weaker and more faint until they stopped altogether. Finally, they found light at the end of a hallway and ran toward the illuminated room._

_They entered into a macabre scene. Their breath caught in their throat at the sight of two wooden racks, one holding Porthos and the other holding d’Artagnan. The men looked elongated and out of shape, their limbs lying at unnatural angles. Both of the men’s arms were stretched far above their heads with their shoulder sockets torn out of place. The Musketeer’s bodies were twisted unnaturally at the hip where their legs hung loosely out of joint_

_“Oh God, we’re too late!” Athos screamed as he checked the pulse on Porthos’ neck but finding nothing. “D’Artagnan, wake up!” Aramis howled as he shook the shoulders that melted into his hands, folding inward bonelessly._

_Suddenly Porthos’ eyes shot open and glared at Athos, full of hate and blame. “You’re too late; why didn’t you come sooner? We’re dead and it’s your fault!”_

_Aramis screeched in horror then jumped back, away from d’Artagnan who sat up, though his arms were still strangely tied to the rack. “It’s your fault we’re dead…it’s your fault we’re dead… it’s your fault we’re dead!”_

“No!” Athos screamed as he sat bolt upright on the bed. The sheet caught then covered his face and, with the darkness of the evening, Athos thought certain he was seized in the trappings of the dungeon. He began fighting vehemently against the restraints of the sheet, twisting and bucking in place. 

Aramis awoke with a start at the screaming and flailing body beside him on the bed. The medic reached out in the darkness to calm Athos but his touch only caused the writhing Musketeer to recoil; the touch sent the swordsman falling sideways off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump.

Athos fought to free himself of the sheet. “Get off of me, get off of me!” he yelled as he thrashed about on the floor. The Musketeer’s commands were stopped by a cough that seemed to erupt from his very core; like a thief reaching for his spoils, the cough pulled the very air from his lungs with savage greed.

“I need a damn light in here!” Aramis screamed as he felt his way to the twitching body of Athos on the floor. The medic could hear the gasping and wheezing sounds as the sick Musketeer fought to breathe but with an obvious obstruction in his airway. “I need some help in here!”

Porthos jumped out of bed and followed the screaming sounds to the other side of the room, bumping into unseen chairs and a table along the way. Going to all fours, Porthos used his hands to feel in front of him and found the medic trying to hold Athos still. “‘Mis, is that you?” the large Musketeer asked as he felt around for Athos.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Aramis snapped. “Where the hell is everyone? I need a damn light!” the medic growled. The room glowed bright with light as Doctors Molyneux and Berteau entered the room, holding lanterns in their hands.

Athos twisted in the sheet, caught as an insect in the lair of a spider’s web; his face was turning deep red and, even with the dim light of the fire, they could see the beginning tinges of blue forming on his lips.

“Turn him over!” Molyneux ordered. Once the Musketeer was turned to his stomach, the doctor then gave a swift punch to the back with the heels of his hands. Again he pounded Athos’ back in attempt to free the phlegm that had lodged in his airway. The doctor pounded again until finally he could see the mucus starting to drip from the sick man's throat. Using his fingers, the doctor swept the mucus free from the throat and mouth then wiped it into his handkerchief.

“I can’t tell if he’s breathing!” Aramis’ panicked voice alarmed the doctors. 

Molyneux rolled Athos onto his side then pounded hard on his chest, effectively causing the Musketeer to draw in a startled gasp of air. The doctor pounded on the patient's back again and again to clear his airway. "Spit it up, Athos,” he ordered.

Athos coughed and gagged and, with the help of the pounding, he released the knot of phlegm blocking his airway into the proffered handkerchief. The tense body under Molyneux’s grip went limp as the Musketeer fell into blissful darkness. 

The doctor rolled Athos onto his back; the Musketeer’s head lolled limply to the side. Doctor Berteau brought the lantern in closer as Molyneux checked Athos’ pulse and breathing. “He passed out… but he is breathing,” the doctor sighed. 

“Thank God!” Aramis sat back on his haunches and let out a cry of relief, crossing himself.

“That was too close,” Porthos let out a strangled breath. “I can’t deal wit’ dis again,” he groaned.

“He’s breathing, but I can still hear quite a bit of congestion rattling in his lungs.” Doctor Molyneux shook his head after listening with his ear pressed against Athos’ chest. “Is there something else that we can do to help clear up his lungs, Doctor?” he asked, looking over at Berteau.

“Well, the rattling in his lungs is to be expected,” Doctor Berteau replied. “Lungwort and licorice are the best remedies with the steam for clearing up his congested lungs, but it does take time to work. Bronchitis is very difficult to treat; it does take time to remedy. We must continue our treatments without getting impatient—that goes for all of us.” 

“I’m tired of being patient,” Aramis grumbled. "I’m sure Athos is as well.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have much of a say…” Berteau’s voice trailed. “What is this blood on the floor?” the doctor asked. He held up the lantern to cast the light more broadly and illuminated the smears of red around where Athos lay.

Aramis quickly lifted the sheet tangled around the Musketeer’s left arm; he gasped when he spotted a growing red stain blooming on the bandage covering Athos’ left arm. “Oh no…”

“Damn, he must ha’ pulled out the stitches when he panicked,” Porthos cursed.

“What happened to his arm?” Berteau asked, as he had treated Porthos and d’Artagnan and knew nothing of Athos’ injuries.

“He was hit with a ‘cats paw' when we rescued Porthos and d’Artgagnan from the dungeon,” Aramis replied glumly.

Porthos growled at the mention of the dungeon. "He was tryin’ to rescue me when one o’ those devils hit Athos on the arm, tryin' to force the main gauche from his hand. I couldn’t help ‘im ‘cause I was still tied to the rack.”

“By God’s grace, it’s a miracle any of you boys walked out of that place alive, judging from the injuries I have seen,” Berteau shook his head. 

“Let us get Athos moved back up onto the bed, shall we?” Molyneux said as he untangled Athos from the sheet. “We need to get this arm sutured then get him back underneath the steam tent,” the doctor instructed. “The sooner we get him back under the tent, breathing the lungwort and licorice vapors, the faster he will begin to heal.”

Aramis and Porthos helped Molyneux lift Athos onto the bed. “Cécile, would you and the nurses go get us some more boiling water, lungwort and licorice; and get some more peppermint too,” Berteau requested. “I need my sewing kit. . . again.”

Doctor Berteau handed Aramis the lanterns as he and Molyneux began unwrapping the bloody bandages; he exposed the torn edges of three deep cuts with the sutures now ripped out and hanging loose. Molyneux pressed the towel hard against the seeping wounds, applying pressure until the bleeding stopped. 

At last the nurses returned with the supplies, including a bottle of brandy to sanitize the wound. After gently cleaning the wounds, Doctor Molyneux began the arduous task of sewing the multiple tears closed. “Damn, that cat’s paw really did a number on this arm,” he muttered to himself. After some time of sewing, the doctor sat up to stretch his back. "My back is starting to ache,” he winced at the pain in his muscles.

“Why don’t I take over now, hmm?” Doctor Berteau offered. “You have been at this for quite some time now.” The older physician smiled as they traded places so he could finish suturing the wounded arm.

“Aramis, if you would, please rinse the wound with the brandy.” Doctor Berteau nodded to the medic, after the surgery was finished. He leaned back in his chair while the medic poured brandy over the sutures then carefully dried the arm. The doctor finished up by wrapping the arm with clean bandages. "All done now, my boy,” he patted the arm softly with his hand. 

“Alright, let’s get this steam tent set up so these young men can get back to their beauty rest,” Doctor Berteau quipped.

“I’d like to try something different this time,” Aramis informed the team of doctors. “Athos had a bad dream just before all this happened,” he said, motioning his hand over the twisted sheet and blood on the floor. “He got tangled in the sheet, but then when I reached out to touch him, he fell off the bed.”

“ 'Mis, what are you goin’ to do?” Porthos asked with hesitation.

Aramis took an apprehensive breath; he glanced from one doctor to the other, knowing they would think he was out of his mind. “I want to sit behind Athos and hold him while he sleeps; I don’t want him to think he’s alone the next time he wakes up in the dark.”

“Aramis, you’re going to get awfully hot under there,” Doctor Molyneux warned. “I would not recommend you stay with him under the tent for a long period of time, it could cause you to overheat.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Aramis resolved, having his mind already made up. “If I get too hot, I’ll have Porthos peel back a corner so I can poke my head out,” he looked to Porthos for agreement. “As long as my face is cool, I’ll be fine.”

“I still do not recommend this, but if it will keep Athos from panicking and hurting himself, then I’ll agree,” Molyneux nodded. “However, if you start feeling too hot, if you feel nauseous or dizzy, then you must get out from under the tent. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’ll make sure he complies.” Porthos stepped forward with an intimidating glare aimed at Aramis.

Aramis smiled as he clapped the shoulder of the large Musketeer. “Always the mother hen,” he remarked affably.

Porthos huffed with displeasure as the two doctors pulled Athos forward so Aramis could maneuver behind the unconscious Musketeer. Being mindful of the injured arm, the medic wiggled behind Athos until he was comfortably positioned; he nodded for the doctors to lay his friend against him. “Alright, cover us up,” he said. He wrapped his arms protectively around his friend then nodded to have himself covered.

“Now, remember what I said,” Molyneux reminded. “If you get too hot, get out from under there. Are you ready?”

Aramis leaned his body deep into the pillows and pulled Athos closer before nodding his consent. “Alright, Athos, what do you say we move _forward_ with healing rather than backwards, huh? There will be no more of you falling off this bed in a panic,” the medic whispered in his unconscious friend’s ear.

Aramis squirmed further into the pillows then winced as pain shot through his ribs. "Damn, I really should follow my own advice and lie still for a while.” The medic rested his head against Athos’ head and sighed. “I can’t believe the hell we’ve been through these last few weeks.”

“We’ll go and let you boys get some rest,” Doctor Berteau told Porthos. “If you need _anything,_ please don’t hesitate to call for us.”

“Thank you, doctors,” Porthos replied. “Good night.”

Aramis watched the silhouette of Porthos as he walked with a lantern toward his cot. “I’m not tired,” the medic called out to the shadows. “Why don’t you sit next to me so we can talk… unless you want to go to sleep?” 

“Nah, I can stay up for a while,” Porthos agreed. He leaned back against the pillows in Aramis’ former place on the bed, placing the lantern beside the bed on a table. “‘Sides, if you get too hot under there and need help, I’ll be right ‘ere.”

“This is eerie…”

“What is eerie?”

“I feel like I’m in a dark cloud with that lantern casting shadows through the steam and the sheet,” Aramis paused. “It sounds strange in here too.”

“You don’t sound strange to me.”

“My voice sounds like it’s echoing off the sheet.”

“Your voice sounds fine to me.”

“How you feeling, Porthos?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure you are,” Aramis huffed. The medic quieted for a moment as he mulled over what happened with Athos. “I think Athos was dreaming about… about the two of you in that place.”

“At least he wasn’t a guest there…” Porthos trailed.

“What did they do to you in there, Porthos?” Aramis broached cautiously.

Porthos drew in a breath of surprise at the question then sat quietly, sinking deep into his own thoughts. He really didn’t want to talk about what happened; he didn’t even want to _think_ about that wretched pit in the deepest part of hell. 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to; I understand if you don't,” Aramis whispered. “I don’t know why I asked. . . I just wish I could help you deal with it somehow.”

“We go’ beaten a lot. . . and whipped while hanging from chains or ropes,” Porthos remembered, his voice low and distant. “They kept askin’ where the letter was but I wouldn’t tell ‘em, so they whipped me… again and again.”

“Aw, Porthos,” Aramis whispered softly. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Porthos opened up about his torture, letting the anger and the pain from the experience roll off his tongue in gory detail. He recalled being chained like an animal to the wall, sitting for hours on the dirty floor in the dark with no food or water. He remembered the fear on d’Artagnan’s face every time that cell door opened, knowing more torture and suffering awaited them.

The large Musketeer wiped the tears from his eyes as he let his head droop forward. He slipped back into his own private thoughts, mulling over the horrors of the dungeon and the suffering it caused him and d’Artagnan.

“Porthos?” Aramis called out after a long period of silence. “Porthos, I think I need some air. . . Porthos?” Aramis began to panic as he started feeling dizzy. “Dear God, I think I’m going to die under here,” he called out loudly.

Hearing the panic in Aramis’ voice finally broke Porthos from his stupor and set him into motion. The large Musketeer rose to throw back a corner of the tent, uncovering Aramis’ face; he found the medic slumped against the pillows with his face dripping with sweat. His hair was plastered in clumps against his flushed skin, as his throat and chest glistened with a sheen of sweat.

“ 'Mis, bloody hell, why didn’t you say somethin’ before you got this hot?” Porthos scolded. “You were s’pos’d to say somethin’!”

“I wanted you to finisshh talking ‘fore I ‘terrupted you,” Aramis slurred, his eyes tightly closed. “Getting the nightmaresss of that place off your chest wasss more ‘portant.”

“More important than you overheatin’ and makin’ yourself sick?” Porthos admonished. “That’s Rubbish!”

Aramis sucked in the fresh air, relishing the cooler temperature outside the tent. Porthos replaced the sheet over Athos, making sure his friend was enclosed completely, while leaving Aramis outside of the sheet.

“I need to get you some water and get you cooled down, ‘Mis.” Porthos got up to fetch a cloth with a bowl of water; he also retrieved a cup filled with the cold liquid. Returning to Aramis’ side, he offered the cup of water then waited until it was emptied before dipping the cloth into the bowl.

He wrung out the excess water then ran the cool, damp cloth over Aramis’ face, neck and chest; the medic accepted the treatment gratefully. “The water feels good,” The marksman closed his eyes, sighing as the cooling cloth soothed his hot skin.

“You would feel differently ‘bout water if you went through wha’ I did when they nearly drowned me.”

“What?” Aramis’ eyes sprang open. “What do you mean, they nearly drowned you?”

“They did somethin’ different to d'Artagnan, but we both felt like we were goin’ to die from drownin'.” Porthos quietly relayed memories of his torture on the waterboarding table, detailing the savagery of the monster who laughed at his horror.

He recalled the terror he felt when he thought he would drown on that table. “I thought I was goin’ to die,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I almost broke; I almost told ‘em where…” 

Porthos choked as the dam inside of him finally broke, bringing a flood of emotions pouring out in uncontrollable sobs. Aramis leaned over to wrap his free arm around his brother and cried tears of pain right along with him. The marksman held his largest brother close as the crying man tucked his face into his shoulder, soaking his shirt wet with tears.

Finally, the sobs subsided and the large Musketeer sat up, wiping away the tears with each shoulder. Aramis and Porthos held their breath suddenly, each straining to listen as they heard faint sounds of crying coming from underneath the tent.

The Musketeers exchanged glances, their eyes wide with surprise and sadness, as they realized the source of the crying. Aramis flung back the sheet to find Athos slumped on his side against the pillows, his cheeks wet. The men couldn’t tell the tracks of tears from the tracks of sweat as they all joined together in streams down his flushed face.

“Oh no,” Aramis whispered. "You heard Porthos, didn’t you?”

“I’m sssorry, Porthss,” Athos wheezed, clamping his eyes shut to concentrate on his breathing. “I should have been with you,” he wheezed again. “I knew something was wrong. . . ‘bout that mission… I should have gone with you… maybe I could have helped.”

“Wha’ kind of fool talk is ‘at?” Porthos feigned anger though he was growing more alarmed with the wheezing breathing of his friend. “You were in no condition to come wit’ us—and if you had—they would’ve killed you. I have no doubt ‘bout that.”

“I should have been there to help,” Athos wheezed. 

“Then we all should have been there,” Aramis lamented, wiping his own tears of guilt from his face. “If I had known Porthos and d’Artagnan were going on that kind of a mission, I never would have taken leave. We are brothers; we’re supposed to look out for each other. You both suffered so much. Athos and I weren’t there to watch your backs and help you when you needed us most.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos shook his head. “You both would ‘av been captured and tortured righ’ along wit’ us in ‘at godforsaken dungeon. No way would I want you and Athos to go through ‘at too.”

“In the dungeon. . . I was afraid we had found you too late,” Athos wiped at his face. “If we had been… just a few minutes later…” Athos gasped as his throat tightened, his chest feeling like it was being squeezed. 

“Athos?” Aramis sat up straight and pulled the sick man until he was more upright; Porthos then threw the sheet back over the duo. The large Musketeer went into the hallway to find Cécile reading at a small table by the light of a lantern. “Cécile, we need help in ‘ere. Where’s the doctor? Athos is having trouble breathing.”

Cécile knocked on Doctor Molyneux’s door, waking him with calls for help. “What’s wrong, what happened?” The doctor lifted the tent to find Aramis coaching Athos, whose face was turning red from coughing.

“Shhh, it’s okay… just breathe with me, Athos,” Aramis soothed. The sick Musketeer kept trying to pull away from the arms holding him upright, but the strong arms wouldn’t let go. Athos really just wanted to curl into a ball and let the coughing take its course. He was tired of fighting. 

He was tired of fighting to breathe; tired of suffocating; tired of fighting the cough; tired of the steam tent. Athos was tired of being tired. Surely his friends would understand that a body has its limits and he long since passed his. 

“Canntt do this ‘n’more,” Athos wheezed. “I'm done fightinn…” the sick Musketeer slurred. He closed his eyes, letting his hands drop limply from Aramis’ tight grip; his head fell forward and he was quiet.

“Athos?” Aramis shook his friend, getting no response. “Oh God, Athos!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No end notes today. Just wanted to say Thank You to those who continue reading and reviewing this story. Thank you to ALL the many guests who have given this story kudos! You all have warmed my heart!!
> 
> HUGS!!


	24. End of a Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos’ heart felt as though it had suddenly dropped to his feet at the thought of his two friends dealing with the grief of his death. “How would _they_ deal with my death? We’ve been friends for so long; would they be able to go on as Musketeers without me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very different than anything I have ever done (perhaps different from anything you've read in Musketeers fandom), the conspiracy is written in narrative form with little dialogue. Today we finish up the conspiracy so we can move back to focusing on the Musketeers... but what of Athos?
> 
> The awesome covert smuggling mission at the Bastille is absolutely REAL and includes the real people involved.

**The Eastern Border, Duke Gaston’s Troops:**

The Duc d’Orléans rode his horse, impressively flanked by Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand and Gaston’s chosen commanders; each of the commanders had distinguished military careers, yet felt disgruntled for lack of promotion and recognition by the king. The awe-inspiring cadre looked grand riding in front of the massive army raised for the sole purpose of unseating the King of France. 

The duke’s majestic white steed was adorned with a saddle blanket of blue with gold fleur-de-lis, identifying him with the House of Bourbon-Orléans. Blue bard decorated the horse across the flank of the stately animal from his broad chest to the neck, and continued to the steel face guard glistening in the sunlight. The duke’s own breastplate glinted with flashes of sunlight, giving him and his horse a glowing appearance.

The blue flag of the House of Bourbon-Orléans stood singular in amongst a sea of blue pennants and banners hoisted high, flapping noisily in the breeze; it gave the approaching army a resplendent look. All activity in the mountain village of Chambéry ceased as townsfolk lined the streets to watch the unusual and rare sight of such an impressive army, led and commanded by nobility.

The last of the village residents slowly dissipated after the large army marched through, heading on the road northwest toward Lyon. As Duke Gaston’s army marched west, Brigadier General Antoine d’Aumont de Rochebaron and Colonel Jean de Gassion led their French soldiers east, determined to put a stop to the rebellious attempt to seize and dethrone King Louis XIII of France.

At last, fate had brought two grand armies together in the small commune of Bourgoin-Jallieu. Thundering hooves, from the hundreds of horses, shook the ground and rose up a tumultuous noise. Soldiers, armed with spears, rode forward, each prepared to pierce and destroy their enemy. Behind the cavalry marched thousands of foot soldiers in two opposing armies. One army prepared to die for king and country; the other, for a duke with delusions of grandeur. 

The cavalry clashed, horse on horse; steel speared flesh of horse and soldier alike in a frenzied amalgamation of opposing armies, each with a distinct desire for victory. Resounding noise erupted as the lines of infantry, in perfect linear formation, exchanged volleys of gunfire. Rank upon rank of soldiers were felled like a crumbling wall, but still the ranks marched forward; the soldiers stepped over the dead, growing quickly in number, without pause.

Duke Gaston’s army, though larger in number, was no match for the French army led by commanders of military talent and genius. The best military talent the duke could muster were former army captains who never had their chance at glory, and one Colonel Édouard Le Marchand, who wasn’t fond of the king and his politics.

In the storm of lead and cannon shot, and gleaming steel of sword and spear alike, officers in command of Duke Gaston’s rebel army were cut down; hope of winning the battle fell with their well-intentioned leaders. Colonel Marchand’s horse was hit and fell dead underneath its rider. Before horse and rider even hit the ground, the colonel was shot through the chest; both fell to the ground dead, their blood pooling as one. 

Upon seeing their inspiring colonel fall, it quickly deflated the determination and esprit de corps among the troops; the soldiers recognized the futility of the fight and began retreating. In a matter of hours, the rebel army was vanquished and the soldiers, who managed to survive the horrors of the conflict, rushed eastward in retreat toward the safety of the mountains and the Valetelline Pass of Italy.

Witnessing the melee of the battle ahead Gaston, Duc d’Orléans, rode further and further behind his troops, seeking safety from the deadly cannon shot and rain of musket balls. Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand took Gaston’s lead and also fell back further behind the danger. Duke Gaston's shoulders drooped and his head hung low with hopelessness; a defeated realization dawned as the battle to defeat French army troops, sent by the king to thwart his brother’s act of treason, was lost.

Gaston knew that if he were to be caught and taken back to Paris, it would mean certain death. He had to leave France immediately. The duke exchanged glances with Ferdinand before turning his horse and galloping ahead of his retreating troops; he quickly sped away to avoid certain capture by the king’s soldiers. He retreated south, back into the village of Chambéry; this time without regal banners, pomp and splendor, and without his grand army marching behind him.

The Duc d’Orléans made his final ride through Chambéry as a defeated commander, retreating in shame and running away to save his own life. Gaston ran from the brother he wanted so desperately to see grovel at his feet, begging for mercy as he took his place on the throne as King of France. Now he ran, from the very same brother who would have him hanged for attempting such a vile act of treason.

Gaston safely made it through the Valtelline Pass then he turned his horse north for the long and arduous ride toward the safety of the Spanish Netherlands. Duke Gaston wiped away the tears of shame as they slipped from his downcast eyes and rolled down flushed cheeks-- red with the embarrassment of defeat.

*****

**Castelnaudary, Duke of Montmorency’s Army:**

Lieutenant General Henri Turenne and his second-in-command, Colonel François de Créquy, marched with their army of six thousand troops south; as Henri II, Duc de Montmorency, and his second-in-command, Brigadier General Achille d’Étampes de Valençay, marched with their army of seven thousand troops north toward Toulouse.

As fate would have it, the two opposing armies met in the village of Castelnaudary, a land that long ago had seen sieges and battles for power, but nothing so tragically accursed as the Languedoc Rebellion that would leave its soil stained red with blood.

The Duke of Montmorency watched with wonder; his heart beat wildly as the vast army approached in front of him. He had seen awe inspiring sights like this before, such as when he led French soldiers to victory against Spanish troops in Avigliana—but this was not Avigliana. 

At Castelnaudary, Duc de Montmorency led troops of men raised in his own Languedoc region; but now his _enemy_ was his own beloved French Army, whose soldiers were led by two of France’s most brilliant commanders, both of whom he knew well. 

The duke shifted nervously in the saddle then glanced at the cavalry soldiers around him on horseback. He nodded with satisfaction at the thousands who marched on foot behind the cavalry; they held their lances high so the steel tips gleamed in the bright sunlight. As the enemy drew close, Henri de Montmorency took a deep breath and waved his sword that he was ready. "Those who love me and are with me, follow!”

At his command, the horsemen rushed forward into a firestorm of lead and unforgiving enemy lances. The gallant duke pressed forward, through rank after rank into the enemy formation, until he was six ranks deep. In the midst of mayhem and chaos, the duke's horse was mortally wounded, torn apart by shot and lance. As the daring horse was killed, his noble and fearless rider was also hit. Together, dead horse and wounded rider fell to the ground where they were immediately surrounded; their gallant charge in battle was now over. 

The Duke of Montmorency lay trapped underneath the dead weight of his lofty steed; though he struggled to free himself, he had not the strength to move the bloodied animal. French soldiers recognized their former general and mourned over him, believing that he was dead as he lay covered in blood from the horse. 

The French soldiers pulled the duke from underneath the animal to find him alive, but severely wounded; his face was covered in blood as he bled heavily from being shot through the cheeks. Looking around the battlefield in bewilderment, the duke realized that his infantry support had never followed behind him on his cavalry charge, but had retreated in terror. 

“I sacrificed myself to ungrateful cowards,” Duc de Montmorency told the French soldiers. The men still looked upon their former general with respect and admiration for his brave, though futile, charge. Four soldiers gently picked up the duke then carried him to the rear lines; he was surrendered to the commanding officers, who received him with high esteem and honor, as due a French general.

Earlier, when the Duke of Montmorency and his cavalry advanced through enemy rank, the infantry commander, Brigadier General Achille d’Étampes de Valençay, thought further attack was futile and had thrown down his sword. "Sound the retreat, I will play this game no further.” 

Brigadier General de Valençay and his infantry retreated. Duc de Montmorency's raised troops from Languedoc scattered; some of them traveled back home to southern France, while others headed north to escape capture.

The former French general, Henri II, Duc de Montmorency, was carried away on a litter to Toulouse but was refused treatment for his wounds. Instead, he was charged with treason and sentenced to die upon the king’s orders.

The conspiracy to overthrow Louis, King of France, had failed; all the guilty parties had either retreated in panic or were to await death on charges of treason, including Pierre La Porte, the queen’s spy, who was now imprisoned at the Bastille. The most famous of the conspirators was the queen herself, Queen Anne of Austria. 

Finally Rochefort would have his revenge against the queen for denying him. At last, he would have the last laugh as he watched Anne die for conspiring against the king with no possible alibi to save her.

Part II

**A Quartet of Conspirators and the Bastille:**

Queen Anne sat at her desk nervously writing a letter that would be the single most important letter she had ever written—one that could save her life. On the flip side, if the letter was found, it most certainly would lead to her death. The queen confided in her most trusted Ladies-in-Waiting, Louise and Claire, entrusting them with separate missions that would play a part in saving her life.

Claire was instructed to dress as a commoner and go at once to Marie de Hautefort’s residence; Marie was requested to come to the palace for the morning's breakfast detail dressed as a kitchen servant. 

In the kitchen at breakfast, Louise would pass the secret letter from the queen to Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort with instructions for her to deliver the letter to Pierre La Porte, presently imprisoned at the Bastille. 

The queen instructed La Porte to corroborate her story about corresponding with her brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand; the correspondence was simply in regard to her brother's travels to Paris at a time convenient to the king and to himself. 

The letter Rochefort confiscated from Pierre had been wisely coded with the request for Ferdinand to reschedule his plans, just in case the letter was found. Surely, Rochefort would have no proof of treason in such innocent correspondence if Pierre corroborated her story. 

The queen decided it would be best to put a message to both Marie and Pierre on the same paper, reducing the risk of multiple pages getting lost or confiscated. Anne took a deep breath and checked one last time over her letter.

_My Dearest Friends Marie and Pierre,_

_Marie, it is vital that you get this letter to Pierre La Porte inside the Bastille as quickly as possible. Rochefort has convinced my husband to charge me with treason for conspiring against the King of France. I will certainly be hanged or beheaded if found guilty of said charges. Do whatever you must to get this letter passed through to Pierre, using whatever means possible._

_Pierre, we must corroborate our stories as to the nature of correspondence with my brother, Ferdinand, as being simply for the arranging of a convenient time at which he could travel from Spain to Paris to visit me. My letters were never more than of personal nature and hopeful plans to visit with a brother that I have not seen in years. Please answer interrogations with this reason—as truth—as my life is depending on your confession._

_Your Most Humble Servant, Anne_

The queen folded the letter and gave it to her Lady-in-Waiting, Louise. “Please, wait for Marie in the kitchen with this letter tomorrow morning at breakfast. Do not let _anyone_ see you pass this letter to her; make sure that _no one_ is watching. Also, make sure she is not being followed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Louise curtseyed and took the letter. She immediately slipped the letter into her dress, down her cleavage beside her breast, tucking it safely where it would not fall out. “You can count on me to get this to Marie, I promise you.”

“You can count on me as well, Your Majesty,” Claire curtseyed. She then departed to go change clothes before undertaking the important task of telling Marie de Hautefort to come to the palace in the morning for the letter exchange.

“May success be yours tomorrow, as my life is depending on it,” the queen said, squeezing Louise’s hands nervously. “God go with you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Louise curtseyed once again then left with the letter; she returned to her quarters where she would wait until sunrise to deliver the most important letter she had ever handled in her life.

**Next Morning:**

Louise rose early and dressed as a commoner for the breakfast detail; she hoped she would easily blend in among the kitchen staff. She made herself busy, helping to prepare the juice as she spotted Marie de Hautefort arriving with a group of kitchen staff. The ladies exchanged glances as Louise announced that she needed more oranges from the pantry; she breathed a sigh of relief when she noticed that Marie followed behind her.

Looking around, making certain everyone was busy getting the morning meal ready for the king, they stepped into the pantry where Louise passed the letter to Marie; the courier then slipped it deep inside her dress, tucking it beside her breast, close to her armpit. Without a word spoken, the ladies exited the pantry and parted ways. Louise finished her juicing, while Marie stepped out of the kitchen with a pastry basket and then boarded a carriage going to town to buy food for the kitchen.

Marie de Hautefort asked to be let off at the market where she slipped away, blending in with the morning crowd. The courier's heart beat wildly as she headed toward the most infamous prison in all of Paris, the Bastille.

**The Bastille:**

At the gates of the Bastille, Marie introduced herself as Madame de Villarceaux, the waiting-maid of Chevalier de Jars, another inmate of the prison. This prisoner was important as he was an ally of the queen, in whose collaboration she could trust, and his involvement was vital to the success of the covert mission.

Chevalier de Jars was classified as a prisoner of 'lesser security risk'; this allowed him the privilege of having his maid bring food and other necessities to him at the prison, which she did quite often. Marie arrived at the gate and was then led to the prison cell containing her desired contact, Monsieur de Jars; there she gave him a basket full of breads and fruit. 

Marie waited until the guards were busy with another prisoner to retrieve the letter then surreptitiously slip it into Chevalier de Jars’s hand; the secret dispatch was quickly tucked into the sleeve of his prison garb and hidden from sight. The undercover courier thanked the guards profusely as they escorted her out of the prison to the front gates; her part in this life-or-death mission was now successfully complete. She let out the breath she had been holding, nearly falling over from the sudden drop in adrenaline, as her heart pounded in her chest. 

Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort took a carriage home as she furiously fanned herself, emotionally drained after completing the most frightening mission of her life for the Queen of France. Marie's important part in the mission to save the queen’s life was over. The queen's life now rested in the hands of a prisoner at the Bastille who must smuggle the letter to the rightful recipient; this feat alone would take a great deal of cooperation and trust.

Chevalier de Jars was a prisoner with relaxed privileges who knew exactly where the especially guarded prisoner, Pierre La Porte, was located. The problem was that La Porte was located two floors beneath his prison cell and de Jars was not allowed to visit that floor. It would be a risky undertaking, a dangerous challenge to get this secret letter down two stories and would require the cooperation of prisoners he did not know.

Prisoner de Jars was a crafty fellow who learned it was easy to win the friendship of his fellow prisoners when rare delicacies, such as fresh pastries and fruit, were shared. Once their friendship and loyalty were won with the promise of more treats, the prisoner directly below his floor was instructed to bore a hole in the wooden floor of his cell; he was then instructed to pass along the secret letter to the prisoner below him, Pierre La Porte. 

The prisoners at the Bastille had very little time during which they were unguarded, so coordinating efforts of boring holes in the floor to pass along the letter proved challenging. The first passing of the letter from Chevalier de Jars' floor to the cell beneath him was made when sudden gunfire erupted outside the fortress, alarming the guards as they rushed to secure the prison.

Chevalier de Jars passed the letter from the queen down through the floor on a long string which dropped into the hands of the prisoner below. “Wait until you have the hole bored, and there are no guards around, before you attempt to pass that letter on to the cell below you. Until then, you must keep it hidden at all cost; it is a matter of life and death. Do you understand me?” de Jars asked.

“I understand,” the prisoner replied. “You do not have to worry, the guards will never know of this letter; you have my word.”

“I hear the guards returning!” de Jars warned. “Hide the letter and do nothing until you have the time to pass it without getting caught.” He quickly lay on his bunk and feigned sleep until the guard passed; only then did he let out the breath he had been holding with a sigh of relief. 

Now, the fate of the queen lay in the hands of a prisoner, a common criminal de Jars barely knew; yet he had no choice but to trust the loyalty of a criminal to complete this most dangerous task in order to save their queen.

The prisoner waited until morning, when the guards performed their daily ritual of ridding the slop waste from the prison, to bore the hole in the floor then pass down the letter to Pierre La Porte waiting below. Finally, the letter was in the possession of the intended spy, on whose word the very life of Queen Anne of France depended.

When Rochefort interrogated, and even tortured, according to witnesses testifying before King Louis, Pierre La Porte did indeed corroborate the queen’s confession that the correspondence with her brother, Ferdinand, was nothing more than a personal request for a visit. This satisfied the king and he pardoned his queen of the charges of treason. The king signed the papers, exonerating Pierre La Porte as prisoner of the court, securing his release from the infamous Bastille. 

“You were very brave, Your Majesty.” Lady-in-Waiting, Louise, bowed to her queen. 

“As were you, Louise, and everyone else involved,” the queen replied. “Each of you put your own lives at risk in order to save mine and I will forever be your debt. I will no longer conspire with Gaston. I have learned my lesson and will never again become involved in any of his schemes; too many lives were risked—and lost—because of our ill-fated plan. Never again,” she resolved. 

“No more conspiracies, Your Majesty,” Louise agreed. “But we will have to be even more secretive with your letters to Ferdinand and to the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Indeed,” Queen Anne replied with a frown. “I fear my life will never be the same; I believe I will never be trusted by His Majesty or Rochefort again. I am the Queen of France, yet I am nothing more than a prisoner within these walls. I am a prisoner of Rochefort and the next person who succeeds him. I will never be free.”

**Palais du Louvre:**

News of the victories that had stopped the ill-fated rebellion on the southern and eastern fronts soon reached the king and his council of advisors, including Captain Tréville. The court was informed of the capture of thousands of enemy troops and their leader, Henri II, Duc de Montmorency. King Louis was also informed of the escape of Gaston, Ferdinand, and General de Valençay, as well as thousands of Spanish soldiers who were seen heading west.

“I must return to Blois, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville informed the king. “My men are still wounded and are oblivious to the events that have happened. They are vulnerable to attack if Spanish soldiers make it that far west,” the captain frowned. “Your Majesty, I request permission to take a squad of Musketeers with me to Château de Blois to protect my men against soldiers coming their way, Sire.”

“Agreed, Captain,” King Louis said, nodding his permission. With that, the captain bowed then left the palace to round up six Musketeers; the elite soldiers rode south to protect their four wounded brothers who lay vulnerable in Blois.

“I hear Duke Gaston has fled to Brussels,” laughed a Spanish soldier. “His château is without a master; his casa, our casa. I’m going to be rich! I will take what I want; if anyone tries to stop me, I will shoot them dead.”

“Si, kill anyone who gets in our way.” The Spanish soldiers laughed as they rode west toward the town of Blois and the Château de Blois, unbeknownst to the four wounded and sick Musketeers within.

*****

**Château de Blois:**

_“I feel strange,” Athos thought as he sat up on the bed. “Aramis, what is wrong with you, why are you so upset?”_

_Aramis acted like he didn’t hear but continued shaking the shoulders of his patient as he screamed in panic. Athos couldn’t tell who the medic was yelling at, nor could he hear what was being said; the sounds were muffled, the voices distant and strange._

_Athos stood and walked toward the door, pausing to take one last look at the scene on the bed. He froze as fear suddenly assailed him; he felt as though he had been hit in the chest with a club. It knocked the breath from his lungs with a whoosh of air._

_He stared at the man lying on the bed; he noticed the left arm, tightly wrapped with a bandage, as it dangled over the edge. The sheet was bunched at the head of the bed, a large corner tossed without care into a pot of lukewarm water. The patient was pulled over the lap of a physician, who then pounded on his back again and again._

_Porthos and Aramis stood at the foot of the bed watching in horror as the doctor frantically tried to save his patient's life. The larger man wrapped his arm around the medic’s shoulder then pulled him in to tenderly whisper in his ear that everything was going to be alright._

_Athos turned his head to look at the unmoving form of the young Gascon lying on a cot near the bed. His head was wrapped with a thick bandage covering his forehead; several bruises and lacerations on his bare chest stood out on the pale skin._

_D’Artagnan’s right shoulder was wrapped tightly with a bandage, but Athos could see angry bruises extending down the arm beyond the bandage. “Aw, d’Artagnan, my young friend and brother,” his voice cracked, making him pause._

_“You came to the garrison challenging me to a fight; you were belligerent and cantankerous,” he huffed with amusement. “You wanted to kill me.” Athos paused, casting his eyes to the floor as he remembered the heated encounter with the Gascon._

_“Over time, I grew to see greatness in you that was buried underneath your anger and animosity.” Athos looked again at his two oldest and dearest friends; both stood, as though transfixed, watching as the doctor desperately worked on saving the patient._

_Athos smiled as he looked between his two friends and then again to the unmoving Gascon. “We came to accept you, not just as a Musketeer, but as a brother; you became our little brother. Somehow you worked your way into our brotherhood. you became the fourth member of the Inseparables without notice or intent… it just happened.”_

_“How will they all cope without me?” Athos wondered as he mentally pictured his brothers going on without him. “D’Artagnan, well, he’ll learn to get along without me—he’s young and strong. Besides, he has his beautiful Constance to help him through the grief. . . and he still has Aramis and Porthos.”_

_Athos’ heart felt as though it had suddenly dropped to his feet at the thought of his two friends dealing with the grief of his death. “How would _they_ deal with my death? We’ve been friends for so long; would they be able to go on as Musketeers without me?”_

_“Being a Musketeer is all that Porthos ever wanted to be—he’s the best I know.” Athos smiled as he watched his large friend. “He wouldn’t give up his aspirations—his career—as a Musketeer because of me, would he?”_

_“What of Aramis?” Athos watched the panicked medic and sank down into the chair beside him. “Would Aramis leave the Musketeers to become a priest like he always wanted? No, he cannot leave! I think he should stay with the Musketeers, stay with Porthos and d’Artagnan and they should all carry on.”_

_“Would my death really have that much of an impact, anyway?” he wondered. “I’m a washed-up comte; a husband who tried to hang his wife; brother to a favorite, but dead, son. I’m a drunk.”_

_“I could walk away now and it would finally be over; the pain, the suffering, the loss, the emptiness… the grief.”_

_“But what of my brothers…”_

*****

“Please, Athos, don’t do this!” Aramis cried. “You’re our brother and we love you! Please, don't leave us; what would we do without you?”

“We need you, brother,” Porthos choked on his tears. “Please fight this… fight for _us_ … please.”

“Wait, I can _hear_ them… how can that be?” Athos stood to his feet. “They want me to fight. . .”

Suddenly, the Musketeer gasped as agonizing pain gripped his chest. He could faintly hear his brothers ordering him to fight, ordering him to breathe, as his world faded again to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaston and his trouble-making:
> 
> Gaston believed that since Louis and Anne had not produced any heirs that he would be better suited for the throne and did conspire in 1626 to overthrow Louis and take his place on the throne with Anne as his queen—the planned failed. In 1632, when Duke Gaston wanted to marry the beautiful daughter of the Duc d’Lorraine, King Louis refused because France and the duchy of Lorraine were enemies. So again, Gaston raised troops with the attempt to depose his brother, but the attempt failed. Also, Gaston and his mother, Marie de Médici, and Queen Anne were involved in a conspiracy to dismiss and/or kill Cardinal Richelieu but it was learned by the cardinal and was thwarted. As punishment, the Queen Mother was banished from France and lived out her days in Brussels, dying penniless. 
> 
> When Marie de Médici was exiled from Paris by King Louis in 1631 for demanding Richelieu’s dismissal, the Duke of Orléans declared his support for the Queen Mother and began raising troops, but instead fled to the duchy of Lorraine. In January 1632 he secretly married Marguerite, sister of Charles IV, Duc de Lorraine. A few days later Louis XIII’s troops invaded Lorraine and forced the Duc d’Orléans to flee to the Spanish Netherlands. Gaston re-entered France with an army in July to join a revolt led by the powerful Duc de Montmorency, governor of Languedoc. On the suppression of the rebellion in September in Castelnaudary, Gaston was pardoned; but the Duke of Montmorency was executed in Toulouse. Again, Gaston retreated to the Spanish Netherlands. Richelieu allowed him to return to France in 1634. The birth of the dauphin Louis (King Louis XIV) in 1638 squashed Gaston’s hopes of ever succeeding to the throne. 
> 
> In this chapter, I used Brigadier General Achile d’Étampes de Valençay as the second-in-command who did not back up Henri, Duc de Montmorency in the Battle of Castelnaudary but it was **actually Gaston,** (who I had with Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand in Chambéry). Since Gaston could not be in two places at once, BG Valençay had to take his place as the one who called for retreat, when in reality, it was Gaston who did. The words spoken (by Valençay) _“sound the retreat, I will play this game no further.”_ were the ACTUAL words spoken by Gaston at the Battle of Castelnaudary as he threw down his sword and fled!
> 
> BG Valençay WAS indeed at Castelnaudary and was one of the commanders who also retreated; he hid in shame, finding exile in Malta.
> 
> But the saddest part of this conspiracy was the betrayal of Henri II, Duc de Montmorency by Gaston. Henri had led a gallant cavalry charge into six lines of “enemy” infantry, mortally wounding his horse, and himself falling wounded. The charge COULD have been a success IF the Duke of Montmorency had been supported by the thousands of infantry behind him, led by Duke Gaston and BG Valençay. But instead, Gaston called for retreat, throwing down his weapon on the field, leaving the Duke of Montmorency to fend for himself. The dialogue that I used were Henri’s actual words; as were the words spoken by Gaston—though they were spoken in the story by Valençay.
> 
> The Duke of Montmorency was recognized by the French Army troops who treated their former general with utmost respect and honor. The people of France protested the charges of treason, with penalty of death, imposed by Cardinal Richelieu and King Louis, but the king would not reverse his decision. Henri sent to Cardinal Richelieu a highly prized picture of St. Sebastian as his final gift---the very one who orchestrated to have Duc de Montmorency killed-- was sent a prized gift by him. Wonder if it shamed the cardinal… or if guilt penetrated his heart in any form? Somehow, I doubt it.
> 
> Henri II, Duc de Montmorency was escorted by four companies of soldiers, with more soldiers lining the streets and squares of town, to his execution site in Toulouse France. It is said that even the judges had to “look down to hide their tears as others buried their faces in handkerchiefs.”  
> His last words were to a Jesuit priest, “I pray you, prevent, if you may, my head from falling to the earth; recover it, if possible.”
> 
> The general was executed to the cries of the crowd, who then dipped their handkerchiefs in his blood, as he was believed to be a martyr. King Louis jailed his widow for 8 months in the Château de Moulin for no reason, other than being Duke Henri’s wife.
> 
> So ends this conspiracy!


	25. The Brothers Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let me go, dammit!” Aramis yanked himself free of Porthos’ strong grip and turned to walk away, but paused next to Athos. “If you want to die so badly, go ahead,” he snarled. “But don’t think I’m going to help you,” the medic angrily stormed out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we're done with my Historical Fiction novella (kidding) let us get back to the Musketeers! The Boys are Sick & Tired of being sick and tensions are high, but one wrong comment brings that tension to a head.

“Athos?” Aramis shook his friend but got no response. “Oh God, Athos!” The medic yelled at the limp man in his arms. “Don’t you dare, Athos! Don’t you dare give up… not like this, dammit!”

“Come on, Athos,” Porthos growled. “If I fought to survive in the dungeon, you can fight to survive ‘dis, dammit!”

“I know you’re tired of being sick; I know you’re tired of fighting,” Aramis whispered in his friend’s ear. “We need you, Athos, and we’re not leaving this château without you. You have to fight… even if you don’t feel like fighting anymore.”

“Athos, aren’t we worth fightin’ for?” Porthos choked back a sob. “Are you givin’ up on us, brother? Wha’ hap’nd to ‘all for one and one for all,’ eh? Have you forgotten ‘at?”

Aramis shook Athos’ shoulders again. “Come on, Athos, we’re not giving up on you! We’re not going to let you go that easily; you should know that by now.” Getting no response, the medic rolled Athos onto his stomach then pounded hard on his back. “If we have to fight _for_ you, dammit, then that’s what we're going to do. . . but you still have to _try!”_ Aramis pounded his fist on Athos’ back a second time.

“Watch out, Aramis.” Doctor Molyneux pushed the medic aside then pulled Athos across his lap; he pounded steadily on the back to loosen the congestion slowly choking the air from the Musketeer’s lungs. 

Aramis and Porthos moved to the foot of the bed as they watched the doctor pound life back into Athos’ body. The medic couldn’t watch anymore but stood with his head bowed, staring at the floor; Porthos squeezed his friend’s shoulder in silent support.

Doctor Molyneux looked at the two Musketeers and sadly shook his head. "I don't know if there is anything more I can do." 

Aramis dropped down on the edge of the bed beside his unconscious friend. "Dammit…try! Please, don’t do this,” the medic yelled near Athos' ear. “You’re our brother and we love you! We need you with us; what would we do without you?”

“We need you, brother.” Porthos blinked back the tears. “Please fight for us… please.”

 _Gasp!_ Athos inhaled a raspy breath…

“That’s it, Athos!” Aramis shouted with excitement as he moved closer to listen. “Try another breath… come on, breathe for us.” Aramis prodded as the doctor continued his pounding.

Athos took in a wheezing breath… and another… and another.

The doctor took his handkerchief and wiped away the phlegm that nearly asphyxiated the Musketeer. Satisfied, Molyneux and Aramis gently pulled Athos back to his place against the pillows as he breathed freely, at last, without choking.

“Athos?” Porthos crawled on the bed to sit beside Athos, opposite of the doctor. He grabbed Athos’ hand in his own and squeezed it tight. “I’ve got ya, brother.”

Aramis collapsed over his brother as the doctor moved away to make room. Relief flooded through the medic as he rested his head on Athos' forehead, oblivious to his own tears falling freely onto the patient's face. The marksman laughed as he tenderly wiped the tears away with his thumb. “Sorry…”

Athos peeled his eyes open and groaned. “I. . . could have walked… away… walked away from this fight. Why couldn’t you… let me go?” The lieutenant closed his eyes and turned his head away; a single tear slipped from the corner of his eyes to drip onto the pillow.

“What?” Aramis and Porthos cried in unison.

“Why couldn’t we let you go?” Aramis repeated in shock. “Athos, I know you’re tired of being sick but… are we supposed to just _let_ you die? What about us? What about how _we_ would feel, dammit!” 

"I wanted. . . wanted it over. Tired. . ." Athos weakly shook his head. His eyes remained closed and his face emotionless.

Aramis cupped Athos by the chin and turned his face toward him. “Look at us, Athos,” he ordered. “We are your brothers; how _could_ you ask us to let you die?” 

“ ‘Mis, ‘at’s enough!” Porthos pulled Aramis up to face him as he shook him by the shoulders. “What is wrong wit’ you?”

“Let me go, dammit!” Aramis yanked himself free of Porthos’ strong grip and got up to leave, but paused next to Athos. “If you want to die so badly, then go ahead. . . but don’t think I’m going to help you.” The medic angrily stormed from the room.

“Bloody hell!” Porthos gasped in shock. “Where do you think you're going?” Porthos yelled after Aramis as he stormed from the room. 

“Wha’sss goin on?” d’Artagnan slurred from his cot as he awoke to the fighting and yelling in the room.

Cécile emerged from her room at the angry yelling in the hallway. “What is going on?”

“Wait, ‘Mis, dammit!” Porthos yelled as he ran after his friend, skipping two stairs at a time to catch up. He chased the medic through the grand entrance and out the double doors into the cool evening air of the courtyard. 

Horrified, Cécile followed after the two Musketeers, being careful not to trip on the stone steps in her long nightgown and slippers. 

Porthos finally caught up to the medic before he got too far. "Stop, dammit!” he growled as he grabbed Aramis by the shoulder. “ ‘Mis, where…?” his words were cut off as a fist suddenly connected to his jaw with a _smack!_

Cécile screamed out in utter disbelief at the uncharacteristically mean display of temper by Aramis; she cried as she was unable to do anything but watch.

Porthos spun slightly at the impact but then charged at Aramis, knocking them both to the ground. The breath in the medic's lungs was forced out in a gush of air as he hit the ground. The large Musketeer pulled back his fist then punched the medic in the face, splitting his lip and knocking his head backward. He pulled the marksman up by the collar and drew back his fist to strike again when Cécile stopped him mid-air.

“Stop it!” Cécile screamed as she grabbed at Porthos' fist. “Stop it, both of you! This isn’t helping Athos!” The nurse pushed the two men apart. “What is wrong with you two?” 

Porthos roughly let go of Aramis’ collar, letting him fall to the gravel in a heap.

“You’re supposed to be brothers… and _look_ at you!” Cécile cried. “You’re acting like school children,” she scolded. “I know you’re both under extreme stress-- and you’re not thinking clearly-- but hurting each other will only make your situation _worse!”_

“The hell it will,” Porthos snapped in reply. “If he keeps talkin’ to Athos like ‘at…”

“Shut up, Porthos!” Cécile interrupted curtly.

Porthos opened his mouth to speak but closed it, his brow furrowed in surprise.

“And just _where_ did you think you going, Aramis?” Cécile shouted as she turned her attention to the medic. “You have no horse and you’re hardly dressed; and … and you have no shoes on your feet,” the nurse pointed to his feet, exasperated. “How far do you _think_ you would have gotten, hmm? Answer me, Aramis!” 

Aramis was taken aback at her angry tirade and when he opened his mouth to reply, it was but a startled squeak.

“Athos did not mean what he said back there, boys,” Cécile’s tone softened. “As a nurse, I have seen much suffering and pain—as I did at your garrison during the catarrh outbreak. I’ve seen grown men reduced to little boys again, calling for their mamas with their dying breath,” the nurse wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’ve seen men, after suffering so much pain, _begging_ me to let them die. . . but all I could do was hold their hand.” Her voice cracked as she choked back a sob.

Porthos moved to console her but she stopped him short. “No, hear me out,” she stepped back out of his reach. “Athos doesn’t know what he’s saying; it’s the illness talking in there. It’s desperation talking, and he's begging to be free. He's tired of suffering,” she paused, “and he wants to be free of it. Both of you need to stop this fighting right now and get back in there; use this high-strung emotion to help Athos fight to _survive!”_

At hearing the nurse’s appeal, Aramis covered his face with his hands and cried; he was appalled, ashamed of his angry words to Athos.

“Hey, ‘Mis, it’s alright.” Porthos knelt beside Aramis to comfort him. “Don’t cry… and don’t shut me out, neither.” The large Musketeer frowned as the medic resisted his attempt to console him.

“I yelled at Athos and said something I _never_ should have said!” Aramis shook his head in disbelief. “I _hit_ you! Mon Dieu, what have I done?”

“ ‘Mis, it’s alright.” Porthos squeezed Aramis’ shoulder gently. “I know you didn’t mean it. Besides, I hit back, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Aramis rubbed at his sore mouth, wiping away the blood.

“At least I go’ a stronger jaw than you,” the large Musketeer quipped.

“You also have one hell of a right hook,” Aramis paused. “I must have forgotten that when I took a swing at you first.”

“Are you boys going to talk outside all night, or are you going to go back inside where it’s warm?” Cécile interrupted as a shiver went through her body.

Porthos pulled Aramis so that he was sitting up. “I’m sorry I hit you, brother.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Aramis shuddered. “I hit you first and. . . God, what a horrible thing I said to Athos.” The medic buried his face between his bent knees as fresh tears slipped from his eyes.

Cécile knelt down beside Aramis then put her arm around his shoulder. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “Athos knows you didn’t mean it; he wasn’t thinking straight either when he said that he wanted to die. I think you're all a bunch of idiots,” she laughed.

“Oh, so now we’re idiots, are we?” Aramis looked up at Cécile then to Porthos as he smiled.

“Oi, I’m not the idiot runnin’ off toward town in my braies. . . with no shoes on my feet,” Porthos wisecracked.

“Well,” Aramis looked his friend up and down. “You’re in your braies too, in case you forgot.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause I had to go chasin’ after you, fool,” Porthos countered. “How far did you think you’d get wit’ those bare feet, eh?”

“To the gate, maybe?” Aramis glanced over his shoulder at the gates and shrugged.

“Boys?” Cécile chimed in. “Can we go back inside, please?” the nurse shivered.

“Aw, Cécile, you shouldn’t be out here with only your nightdress on!” Aramis rebuked. He tried to get up but fell back to the ground, gasping in pain.

“ ‘Mis, what’s wrong?” Porthos frowned with alarm. “Don’t tell me I hurt your ribs… bloody hell!”

“No, just… just sore… that’s all,” he blew out a long breath.

“Rubbish! Jus’ sore… sure, ‘Mis.” Porthos mocked as he shook his head.

Porthos and Cécile helped Aramis slowly rise to his feet. The medic drew in hissing breaths through his teeth at the pain; he swayed unsteadily on his feet and nearly toppled over. The large Musketeer sympathetically scooped the medic into his arms and carried him back into the château, to their room upstairs.

*****

**Earlier, While Aramis and Porthos Were Outside:**

Athos watched as Aramis stormed from the room with Porthos quickly chasing after him. “Ar'mis?” Athos whispered as his eyes watered.

“What… the hell was that about, Athos?” d’Artagnan demanded, more awake now after the scuffle.

“Nothing.” Athos shook his head, letting his eyes slide closed.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong.” Doctor Molyneux glowered as he stood beside the lieutenant’s bed, his arms crossed in anger. “Athos didn’t _think_ of how his brothers might react to his question of why they didn’t let him go. Did you really _expect_ them to let you die?" the doctor asked, exasperated. 

Athos remained quiet.

“Athos, I will tell you that your brothers have worried and prayed over you as they have sat beside your bed—forgetting to even eat or sleep. They have kept vigil over you, constantly watching to make sure you still drew breath hour after hour.”

Athos listened to the scolding quietly as a tear slipped from his eye then rolled down his temple.

“At the garrison when you were sick, Aramis tore off his mask and exposed himself to catarrh to save your life and, in turn, risked his own,” the doctor reminded. “How could you ask someone—who would trade his own life for yours—so callously to let you die? You would have been better off asking Aramis and Porthos to cut out their own hearts—as I’m sure they’d sooner do that—than to sit by and simply watch you die. Now pull yourself together, Athos, and _fight_ this illness.”

Athos opened his eyes to join with d’Artagnan in staring in surprise at the normally soft-spoken physician. 

“Athos, I know you’re tired of fighting and you’re tired of suffering, but you have to be strong nonetheless.” Molyneux sighed then softened his tone. “If you cannot fight for yourself, then fight for your three brothers who are counting on leaving here _with_ you at their side. You have to think beyond yourself, Athos; you must think of how they would react to your death.”

“That’s exactly. . . what I did,” Athos whispered. “They are the _only_ reason why I didn’t walk away.”

Doctor Molyneux’s brow furrowed at the confession. “What are you…”

“Well, I can tell you,” d’Artagnan interrupted. "If Athos died, it would be the worst experience imaginable.” 

Athos turned his head toward d’Artagnan, looking at him for the first time since they arrived at Château de Blois. He frowned at the bandage around the Gascon’s head and the bandages around his shoulder and chest. “D’Arttngnn…” Athos coughed. He turned to his side and curled himself into a ball. 

“Doctor Molyneux, the steam and medicine is ready for him, and just in time, it appears.” Doctor Berteau entered the room carrying a large pot of water. “Let’s get him back under that tent so he can begin his treatment again.”

“Wait…” Athos’ eyes popped open wide. “Before I go… back under there.” He breathed through his nose to stifle a cough. “Could I…” he paused, blushing. “Could I please…?”

“You need to relieve yourself?” Molyneux asked with a large smile. “Don’t be embarrassed, Athos; that is utterly terrific!”

“Really now…” Athos cocked his head sideways as his face flushed with embarrassment. 

D’Artagnan snickered with amusement from his cot as the two doctors exchanged glances and laughed. 

“Athos, it’s terrific because it means that your kidneys are beginning to function properly again,” Doctor Berteau explained. “This is indeed a very good sign and a step in the right direction toward your healing. You’re still weak from blood loss; we need to keep putting the liquids into you then allow nature to take its course—as well it should.”

“We’ll let you have your privacy.” Doctor Molyneux handed the chamber pot to Athos. “I’ll go make some hot valerian tea for you,” he patted the Musketeer’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” The doctors left the room, busying themselves to allow the man some privacy.

D’Artagnan shook his head and smiled. The Gascon tossed his left arm over his eyes as he chuckled to himself, much to Athos’ chagrin.

When Athos was finished, a nurse took away the chamber pot as the doctors returned to the room. Molyneux gave the Musketeer a cup of tea as he leaned back against the pillows; he slowly sipped on the tea, savoring it as it soothed his throat. Occasional coughs erupted but he breathed through them as best he could.

“Where did they go?” Athos asked of his friends. “Will they come back?”

“They just went outside to get some air,” Doctor Berteau replied. “I saw them out in the courtyard… um, talking things over.”

“Don’t worry about them, they’ll be back.” Molyneux assured as he took away the empty cup. Athos’ eyes began to droop until at last they slid closed; his breath evened as he fell into a restful sleep. The doctors covered him with the sheet then placed the boiling herbal water at the head of the bed so it could begin emitting its refreshing aroma of medicine and steam.

“Sleep now, Athos,” Molyneux whispered. “You need your strength to fight this illness; you’re not quite out of the woods yet.”

*****

**Present Time:**

Porthos entered the room carrying Aramis in his arms, much to d’Artagnan’s surprise. The large Musketeer lay the medic down on the bed beside Athos while relaying to the doctors what happened outside in the courtyard.

“This is not good, gentlemen,” Doctor Berteau scolded. “I thought you boys would be rather tired of your injuries and not so much in a hurry to cause further harm to each other!”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to check on those ribs anyway.” Doctor Molyneux tactfully interrupted. “Aramis, so help me, if you have injured those ribs again after they were healing so nicely; I cannot guarantee what my reaction will be,” he grumbled.

“I’m afraid if his ribs are injured again, it's my fault,” Porthos admitted softly. "I charged into him and knocked him to the ground.”

“You did what?” D’Artagnan gasped, sitting upright on the cot. “What is the matter with you?”

“It doesn’t matter now, d’Artagnan.” Cécile stepped in to stop the line of questioning. “We already went over this outside.”

“Yeah, but…” 

“But nothing!” Molyneux snapped as he slammed his medical bag down on the bed. “Each of you has had enough injuries to go around aplenty without you deliberately adding to them with childish fighting. Now, if you cannot get along and allow each other to heal—without bringing further harm to one another—then I will have no choice but to separate you into your own rooms. Is that what you want?”

The Musketeers stared at Doctor Molyneux with wide eyes and mouths open in shock; they each shook their head side-to-side with furious objection to being separated.

“Good, then it’s settled.” Molyneux stifled a smile; he knew the feigned angry tirade would get their attention and bring the reaction he desired. “Now I think I know what your poor Captain Tréville goes through,” he sighed. “How that man hasn’t lost all of his hair is beyond me.”

“Speaking of Captain Tréville, where is he?” d’Artagnan asked, his memory fuzzy.

“He had to go back to Paris; he said he had business to attend to—don’t you remember?” Aramis questioned as Molyneux unraveled the bandages around the medic's ribs.

“Nevermind talking about that right now,” Molyneux cut into the conversation. “It’s late and I want each of you to get some rest; you can talk in the morning.”

“But doctor…” Porthos began but was interrupted by the doctor.

“Lie down on your cot and don’t say another word!” Molyneux stopped his ministrations for a moment. “Doctor Berteau and I are going to finish examining and taking care of these ribs for Aramis. I want to hear no more words coming from _any_ of you or I will have you separated, do you understand?”

The doctors grinned as each of the Musketeers opened their mouths to answer but quickly closed them to merely nod.

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere.” Molyneux smiled at the peace and quiet in the room. “How your captain hasn’t turned completely grey…” the doctor muttered to himself.

“Um, doctor, earlier you wondered how he hasn’t lost all of his hair,” Aramis interjected cautiously. “He can’t go grey if he’s already lost his hair.”

Complete unadulterated laughter broke out in the room. Porthos bent over at the waist, slapping his knee in uncontrollable giggles; d’Aragnan rolled onto his side, clutching at his mid-section as he roared with laughter.

“Sorry, forgot…” Aramis grinned sheepishly as Doctor Berteau tugged on the bandage, eliciting a wince from the medic.

“For elite soldiers, you boys are a stubborn lot,” Molyneux chuckled softly. 

“Where is that brandy?” Berteau grumbled, “I need a drink.”

This only elicited more laughter from the Musketeers. Though they were told to get some rest, the two doctors didn’t hamper the momentary merriment in the room. Rather, they enjoyed hearing such laughter coming from these men and neither doctor was willing to put a stop to it. The four Musketeers had certainly experienced a terrible ordeal at the hands of devils; they each had every right to wallow in grief and despair. Yet tonight it was forgotten. 

The doctors knew the men weren’t out of the woods, as each of them still needed time to heal, but this was a step in the right direction. For a night, they could forget their hurts and the terrors of the past and simply laugh.

If only the Musketeers knew, as they laughed, that a rabble of unruly Spanish soldiers, looking to take advantage of Duke Gaston’s defeat and resulting retreat, were now marching westward to raid the presumed-empty Château de Blois. These Spanish soldiers were not going to let anyone or anything get in the way of collecting their due ‘spoils of war’. 

These soldiers weren’t going to return to Spain until they got their recompense from a leader responsible for their defeat in the fight against the King of France. Gaston, Duc d’Orléans, was a leader who turned tail and ran; he was a leader who let his troops down on the battlefield. These angry soldiers planned to raid Château de Blois and strip the duke of all his wealth. . . and they were on their way to do just that. 

What a glorious way to exact revenge!


	26. Fight at the Château

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What we need is for the captain to come down here and bring the regiment along with him,” Athos growled. “We can’t hold them off much longer—our ammunition in running low. If we don’t get some help here very soon… we’re in serious trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week I will wrap up the story... but the boys aren't out of the woods just yet. Château de Blois suddenly becomes a war zone-will Captain Tréville arrive in time?

Captain Tréville raced his horse in front of the small company of Musketeers thundering toward Blois to protect his four vulnerable men who were still wounded and sick; the men were completely unaware of the monumental events over the past few days. 

Tréville didn’t know how many Spaniards were heading west looking to take advantage of Duc d’Orléans’ retreat from France, but he knew his men were both unaware of the conspiracy and the potential danger approaching the château. 

The captain acknowledged that even _if_ his men were healthy and armed to the teeth, they would still have trouble holding off dozens of armed Spanish soldiers. However, Captain Tréville’s men didn’t have their health and their weaponry was very limited.

Looking back on the events of the last several days, Captain Tréville could hardly believe that the king’s own brother and the queen—his own wife, for the love of God— were involved in a conspiracy to overthrow King Louis. The captain didn’t want to believe it, yet he wondered if the queen had somehow tampered with the letter from the king? _That damn letter is what started all of this; but how does one accuse the queen of such a thing?_

Of course, without the letter, the captain had no proof to back up his suspicion. Besides, even if he did have such proof, what would he do with it? The Duke of Orléans had fled France and the queen had been cleared of treason. If the captain proved that the queen _was_ involved with the conspiracy it would surely mean immediate death. Captain Tréville was emphatic, in no uncertain terms did he want Queen Anne’s death to be a burden carried on _his_ shoulders.

The captain shook his head to clear his mind of such morbid thoughts. No matter, he didn’t have time to worry about the consequences of the conspiracy; he had to protect the château and the innocent lives currently residing within its stone walls.

*****

**Château de Blois:**

The four Musketeers were sleeping soundly after having worn themselves out laughing over trivial, but humorous, topics. Laughter was the perfect distraction for their tormented bodies and minds. They found solace in the company of their brothers, each having forgotten—if only momentarily—the nightmares of which they were reminded every time pain shot through their bodies. They were reminded every time they dreamed.

Aramis was sleeping on the bed holding a hand that had slipped out from underneath the sheet. The comforting touch of the medic’s hand seemed to satisfy Athos, lying alone inside the tent; the touch was sufficient enough to allow him to sleep peacefully without waking, feeling lost and afraid.

Porthos and d’Artagnan slept side-by-side on their cots clinging to one another, each finding comfort in the other’s touch, as though they were afraid to let go. Subconsciously, they remembered the horrors that happened every time they were separated in the dungeon; the simple touch of a hand reassured each man that his brother was still at his side. 

The Musketeers slept until around midday when they almost instinctively stirred together. Aramis awoke to immediately check on the still-sleeping Musketeer next to him, throwing back the sheet to reveal Athos’ flushed face dampened with a sheen of sweat.

“Athos?” Aramis gently shook the Musketeer’s shoulder, becoming alarmed when he didn’t awaken. “Come on, Athos, you’ve had long enough to sleep; we need to get some water in you.” The medic shook the shoulder again and was relieved when he saw the tired eyes open. “There you are, my friend,” he let out a relieved breath. “You had me worried.”

Athos let his eyes slide closed again but Aramis was having none of the sleepy behavior. "No, open your eyes, Athos,” he ordered, tapping the Musketeer’s cheeks in frustration. “You need to drink some water; it's time to wake up now.” 

The medic looked up as Doctor Molyneux entered the room to check on his patient. “Athos is too lethargic," Aramis announced with some panic. "Why isn’t he waking up?” 

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed to check Athos’ pulse and temperature; he listened to the patient's breathing with his ear pressed to the Musketeer’s chest. “His lungs are still congested, but the lethargy concerns me. When was the last time he had anything to eat?” Molyneux asked.

“In all honesty, I don’t think he’s had _anything_ to eat since we got here," the medic replied with a frown. "He’s been either asleep or unconscious the entire time.” 

“Well, therein lies the reason why he’s so weak; especially given the large amount of blood loss he experienced.”

“You mean he hasn’t eaten in almost a week?” Cécile asked, incredulous. “Merciful heavens, no _wonder_ he can’t wake up!” The nurse poked her head into the hallway to find Nurse Maria. “Nurse, can you show me to the kitchen so we can get some soup brought up for Athos?”

“Of course, come with me.” Maria motioned her head toward the stairs. 

“I’ll be right back.” Cécile tapped Aramis on the shoulder and smiled.

“Athos, you must be hungry, huh?” Aramis smoothed his hand over his friend’s face, gently brushing away the clumped hair from his sweaty forehead. “Cécile is bringing up some soup so you can eat; you need to regain your strength or you'll never heal.” 

“He’s not gonna heal if he's starving to death.” Porthos interjected as he sat on the bed next to Aramis. 

“The thought of food. . . makes my stomach turn,” Athos replied without opening his eyes. He frowned as he swallowed the bile rising in his throat; he concentrated hard to keep from getting nauseous. 

“Athos, you have to eat or your body will grow weaker,” Aramis warned.

“Oh, he’ll eat,” Porthos nodded affirmingly. "He'll eat if I have to spoon-feed him and force it down his throat.” The large Musketeer stretched out his hands and cracked his knuckles for effect, all the while letting out a throaty growl.

Athos peeled open his eyes as the hint of a smile turned his mouth upward. He watched as his friend glared at him, stretching and flexing his fingers as warning. The sick Musketeer let out a huff of amusement but then let his eyes slide closed again. His breathing slowed to an even, sleeping rhythm. 

“Damn,” the medic cursed as he scooped his brother in his arms to pull him upright. "Let’s get you sitting up, at least.” The marksman worried as the sick Musketeer was so weak that he lacked strength to hold his head up. Aramis couldn’t hold back the smile as Athos snuggled his head into the crook of the medic’s neck and fell back into a light sleep.

“Aw, hell, ‘Mis.” Porthos tipped his chin toward the sleeping Musketeer. “You might as well let ‘im sleep ‘til the food comes up.”

Aramis acquiesced with a nod of his head. “I’ll give him a few more minutes,” he whispered. Though he worried for his drowsy friend, the medic didn’t mind being used as a temporary pillow until the food arrived.

After some time, Steward Fontaine returned to the room with a group of kitchen servants carrying trays of soup, meat, bread, cheese, fruit, tea and water for all the men.

Porthos jumped up from the bed rubbing his hands together in cheerful anticipation, laughing with delight. “I don’t know what you boys are eatin’ but this should be ‘bout right for me; I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”

“Now, now Porthos.” Cécile shook her head and smiled at the large Musketeer. “There is plenty for _all_ of you ravenous gentlemen and there’s more on the way.”

“Why don’t we bring the long table over and let them sit together while they eat,” the steward suggested to the servants, motioning to the table in the corner.

“What an excellent idea, Steward.” Doctor Molyneux agreed. The servants prepared the table, setting the tableware and dishes, then displayed the vast assortment of food family style for the men. 

Aramis shook Athos but he just groaned and smacked away the medic’s hand. “Come on, Athos, dammit, you need to get something to eat.” The medic persisted, though he was losing his patience.

“That’s it!” Doctor Molyneux smacked his knee in frustration. “Aramis, go sit at the table with everyone else and get something to eat. I’ll handle Athos,” the doctor ordered as he shooed the medic away.

Doctor Molyneux sat Athos back, propped against the pillows; he put a tray with a bowl of soup on the lap of the Musketeer. “Now, you _will_ eat this soup even if I have to spoon feed it to you like a baby,” Molyneux fumed. “I am your doctor, Athos; I am not asking you, but I am _telling_ you to eat. Now, either you will feed yourself or _I_ will feed you—it’s your choice—but either way, you _will_ eat.” The doctor stood by the bed with his arms crossed resolutely, glaring at the Musketeer.

Athos sighed in compliance; he picked up the spoon and slowly fed himself the soup. The Musketeer soon slowed, breathing heavily between bites. He laid back against the pillows with his eyes closed, doing his best to keep the food from coming right back up again.

Aramis and Porthos traded quiet glances as they watched Athos grimace and scowl. The Musketeer soon lurched, barely giving time for the doctor to extend an empty bowl under his chin as he threw up the bites of soup he had just swallowed.

The doctor wiped Athos’ mouth with a napkin then retrieved another bowl of soup. "Try again,” he ordered.

Athos blinked in surprise at the doctor’s harsh order. He glanced at Aramis before slumping in resignation, realizing the physician meant business and had no intention of backing down. The Musketeer reluctantly picked up the spoon and scooped a bite of soup, hesitating with the spoon at his lips; he let the soup pour into his mouth and then swallowed, grimacing miserably as it went down.

The three Musketeers at the table covered their mouths to hide their smiles as they watched their headstrong lieutenant lose a battle of will. Athos, the headstrong Musketeer, was bested by a French country doctor more stubborn and unyielding than the bullheaded comte. 

Athos finished the soup then fell back against the pillows, exhausted; he closed his eyes, concentrating on keeping the soup down. Beads of sweat popped up on the Musketeer’s forehead then rolled down in streams over the creases of his scrunched his face. His chest heaved with heavy breaths; his stomach rumbled, though he fought the urge to toss up what felt like rocks in his belly. He groaned while tightly fisting the blanket in both hands.

Aramis watched with concern as Doctor Molyneux swabbed a damp cloth over the Musketeer’s face to soothe his patient. “Are you going to be alright Athos?” the physician asked as the patient fought to retain his meal.

Athos barely nodded, remaining quiet as he concentrated on his breathing while not getting sick. The doctor continued his ministrations, watching as the grimaces and the creases on Athos’ face slowly smoothed then disappeared altogether as he finally drifted off to sleep. 

“Good,” Molyneux whispered. “Let’s hope he sleeps long enough for the food to absorb and stay in his system; he’s got to gain his strength if he’s ever going to recover.”

*****

**Later at the Château:**

The Musketeers had each fallen into a lazy afternoon nap after having had their fill with the lovely meal brought up to their room earlier. Athos slept soundly next to Aramis; his head once again snuggled into the crook of the medic’s neck as they leaned against the pile of pillows. Porthos and d’Artagnan slept on their own cots set close together, though not clinging to each other in the daylight.

Everyone else inside the château was carrying on with their daily duties when suddenly the sound of gunfire rang through the large grand entrance. Spanish troops poured in through the double doors of the large manor, knocking over statues and busts in the long hallways. 

Steward Fontaine was upstairs talking with the doctors when the gunshots rang out. “What in the hell is going on down there?” he asked, running to the staircase to look over the railing. “Get in that room and lock the door!” he ordered the physicians after seeing soldiers moving around downstairs. 

He ran to the duke’s personal office where Gaston kept his special collection of flintlocks and muskets and grabbed two pistols from the case. Fontaine then searched for lead balls and powder, gathering up enough to last for several uses, then headed back toward the stairs. 

The steward shot a soldier as he crept around the corner at the top of the stairs; he shot another as the soldier bounded up behind him. Fontaine grabbed their weapons then shot at an approaching group of soldiers running toward the stairs; the remaining soldiers of the group took cover behind the statues adorning the railings of the sweeping staircase. The steward ran with his armload of weapons and kicked at the door of the Musketeer’s room where the two doctors hid themselves. “It’s Steward Fontaine, let me in!”

“What the hell is going on out there?” Porthos growled as the steward ran into the room. “Who is out there shooting?”

“Better yet, _why_ are they out there shooting?” Aramis interjected. “Who are they and how many are there?” The marksman pounded questions at the steward.

“You’re not going to like this,” Steward Fontaine warned. “They’re soldiers; I can tell from the uniform they’re wearing that they’re Spanish. I saw several downstairs, all going in different directions.” 

“Spanish soldiers?” Aramis shot Porthos a startled look, his eyes wide.

“Wha’ the hell are Spanish soldiers doin’ this far north?” Porthos asked the steward, glancing between Aramis and d’Artagnan.

“Why would they come to the château?” D’Artagnan asked, now standing at the foot of the bed near Porthos and Aramis. “Where exactly is Duke Gaston?”

“I do not know the answers to any of your questions, gentlemen,” the steward said. “They are quite valid questions and I am quite concerned as to why the Spanish are here. I shot three or four dead on the stairs, but there’s too many for one person to hold off; I’m going to need help.”

“Steward, where are our weapons?” D’Artagnan stepped forward. “If we can get to our swords and pistols, we can help hold them off.”

“They’re down at the other end of the hallway,” he replied, shaking his head. “It may be too dangerous; there are too many soldiers out there.” 

“Well, we can start by reloading these.” D’Artagnan motioned to the two flintlocks and three muskets the steward brought with him into the room. “We’ll use them as protection while Porthos and I run down the hallway to retrieve our weapons.”

“Wait a minute!” Aramis protested, sitting upright on the bed. “Why you two?” he asked. “I don’t have a hurt shoulder, d’Artagnan, so I can carry the weapons easier than you.”

“No, you should stay here and guard Athos. Besides, you're a good shot and can provide covering fire; you can watch our backs as we make our way down there.” Porthos gave a matter-of-fact answer, eliciting a nod of agreement from the young Gascon. 

A series of shots rang out in the hallway, followed by nurses screaming; they each ran into a room, locking the door behind them to keep the intruders out. Another shot rang out followed by a lead ball bursting through the Musketeer’s door, causing the wood to splinter. The men in the room scattered for safe cover.

“Bloody hell!” Porthos cursed as he helped reload the muskets.

“How good a shot are you, Steward?” Aramis asked as he also reloaded his musket.

“I served in the army fighting against the Huguenots, as well as many other campaigns,” the steward replied. “I am quite skilled with a firearm.”

“Excellent, we should be able to provide Porthos and d’Artagnan with enough cover to get to our weapons,” Aramis nodded. “Are there any more weapons up here and—more importantly—is there anyone else who can help keep these soldiers at bay?”

“Yes, there are more weapons in the office,” nodded the steward. “As for the servants, they could be spread anywhere inside the château; I have no idea if there is anyone on the third and fourth floors who can help us. I heard the nurses locking themselves into the bedchambers down the hall, hopefully they will stay out of harm's way.”

“I’m not particularly fond of guns but I do know how to shoot and I know how to reload,” Molyneux offered. “I am a doctor, gentlemen. I normally save lives not take them; I would prefer to reload if I'm needed in that manner.” 

“Alright, you’ll be our reloader, doctor,” Aramis nodded. “We need to gather up the rest of the weapons; everyone will have to help out, if we are to hold off these Spaniards.” Aramis looked to every person in the room. “It’s not much, but it’s the best we can do for now. Are we ready?”

“Aye, we’re ready.” Porthos and d’Artagnan stood with their pistols in hand, ready to run. Aramis and Steward Fontaine positioned themselves by the door with muskets, prepared to cover them against gunfire the Musketeers would be drawing the minute they stepped out of the room. 

The door was thrown open wide, instantly alarming shooters across the hall by the stairs. Aramis and Steward Fontaine peeked out from behind the safety of the door and shot two soldiers as they reloaded their weapons. Porthos shot a third soldier crouching at the top of the stairs, while d’Artagnan shot another running up the stairs toward them. 

While the hallway was momentarily clear, the two Musketeers ran down the hallway toward the room where their weapons were being stored; Steward Fontaine ran to Duke Gaston’s office to retrieve more weapons and ammunition. 

As the doctor reloaded the weapons, more soldiers poured up from the stairs to give chase to the men running down the hallway. Aramis and Doctor Molyneux shot two soldiers, who then tumbled down the stairs and took more soldiers with them as they tumbled to the bottom. 

As the steward neared the office, a shot rang out from a soldier who had stepped out from his hiding place across the hall. The ball clipped the steward across his shoulder, sending him spinning into the wall. He turned around just as the soldier swung his musket at his head, intending to kill by any means necessary. The steward ducked then quickly grabbed the musket from the soldier; he used it like a club against the side of his attacker’s head. Fontaine turned the musket then smashed the butt plate into the soldier’s forehead, splitting his head open and knocking him out cold.

Steward Fontaine made it to the office where he gathered up as many weapons as he could carry, as well as another powder flask and a drawstring bag full of lead balls. He found Duke Gaston’s favorite pistol in the desk drawer; he loaded the pistol then stuffed it into his belt before poking his head into the hallway to see if the way was clear. 

Slowly, he made his way back to the sickroom but stopped just outside the doorway. He watched with dismay as Porthos and d’Artagnan were pinned down two rooms from where their weapons were stored. The steward noticed two soldiers with pistols across the hall from their location, halting the Musketeer’s advance.

“Porthos and d’Artagnan are in trouble,” the steward reported to Aramis. “They’re pinned down by soldiers across the hall so they can’t get to their weapons. I’m going down there to see if I can help.”

“Doctor Molyneux,” Aramis called over his shoulder. “Do you think you can help me secure the hallway while Steward Fontaine goes to help the boys?”

“I can help out,” Athos rasped as he sat up on the bed. 

“Are you joking?” Aramis countered. “You’re sick and in no condition to fight, Athos.”

“I may be sick, Aramis, but I’m not helpless, dammit!” Athos growled with displeasure. “I can help hold off the soldiers.” The lieutenant looked for a pistol in the cache of weapons the steward had brought to the room. “I can handle a pistol. Besides, it looks like you’re a little short on manpower right now.”

“Fine,” Aramis reluctantly agreed. “But if you feel like you’re going to collapse—I don’t care what’s going on—you will get back in that bed, do you hear me?” Not waiting for a reply, “If you get shot, so help me…” he stopped himself short, unwilling to think such things.

Athos cocked his head and gave Aramis a look of ire. “Just take care of yourself and don’t worry about me,” the lieutenant ordered.

“Yeah, easier said than done,” Aramis muttered under his breath. Suddenly, the medic jumped back to align himself with the door frame as he saw a soldier sneaking his way up the stairs. The marksman's eyes grew wide as he saw two more men following behind him. 

Aramis motioned quietly to Athos, holding up three fingers at chest level, then motioned with his head toward the stairs. Athos nodded with acknowledgement and steadied himself on his feet, ready to engage in a certain firefight. He glanced at Doctor Molyneux, who also nodded as he held a musket in his hands.

Aramis waited until the first soldier was at the top of the stairs then shot, hitting hit his target in the chest and killing him instantly. Athos swooped out from behind the door with his pistol aimed at the second man, who then turned tail and tried to run back down the stairs; the lieutenant's shot hit the man in the back. The soldier lurched forward then tumbled down the stairs, taking a third man down with him.

Aramis grabbed a loaded musket from Molyneux and took aim, easily hitting a soldier who had suddenly appeared. The medic breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived as another group of three soldiers ran up the stairs. Finding their comrades dead, the soldiers turned back around to go retrieve help.

Athos and Aramis exchanged alarmed glances at the sound of more soldiers running their way. “We’re not going to be able to hold them off at this rate,” Athos hissed to Aramis. “There are too many of them!” 

“We’re only going to last a few more minutes…” Aramis was interrupted by gunfire erupting from down the hall where Porthos and d’Artagnan were located. Shots were exchanged in rapid succession, followed by the distinct sound of bodies dropping. 

“Is there another staircase down at that end of the hall?” Athos asked, his eyes shifting wildly between the men.

“Yes, there is,” Doctor Berteau replied. “Steward Fontaine told me there is a private staircase at that end—not many people know of it—but it appears the soldiers have discovered it.”

*****

“Porthos, watch out!” D’Artagnan took aim at a soldier who had the large Musketeer in his line of sight. The Gascon fired his weapon, hitting the soldier square in the chest before he could pull the trigger.

A second soldier came from behind a door to take aim at d’Artagnan, now holding an empty musket; before the soldier could fire, he fell over dead with a shot from Steward Fontaine’s pistol. 

The Gascon reached down to pick up the loaded musket of the dead Spaniard just as an unseen musket fired from the private staircase. “Ah damn,” d’Artagnan yelled in surprise. The Spaniards ball grazed along the right side of the Gascon's head above the tip of his ear; the force of the hit caused the young man to drop to his knees as he cupped a hand protectively over the wound.

“Watch out!” Porthos swung from behind the Gascon to shoot the Spaniard as he stepped into the hallway. A second soldier emerged from the staircase to take a shot at Porthos. The lead ball hit the wall behind the Musketeer, sending stone shrapnel flying into the large man’s neck. “Bloody hell!” The large Musketeer kicked angrily at the scattered stone pieces on the floor.

Finally, the men reached the room where the Musketeer weapons and accoutrements were stored. Porthos and d’Artagnan strapped on their weapons belt then quickly secured the pistols and main gauches, before strapping on their swords. 

“Keep your hands free for fightin'.” Porthos secured Athos’ weapons belt and the lieutenant's sword around his waist so his hands could remain free for fighting his way back to the room.

“That’s a great idea,” d’Artagnan smiled as he reached for Aramis’ weapons belt and sword. He strapped the belt over his own then attached the medic’s weapons and sword before joining his brother Musketeer and the steward, ready to charge down the hall.

The three men ran to the room next door without incident but as they pressed forward, they met resistance from soldiers pouring up from the stairs in front of them. The Musketeers easily killed two soldiers, and the steward a third, allowing them to reach the safety of another room.

The men reloaded their weapons and charged from the room, but they were soon accosted by a group of three soldiers from across the hall. The steward shot one soldier dead; the Musketeers were caught in a hand-to-hand struggle with the remaining Spaniards. 

Porthos easily wrestled the musket from his opponent and then swung the stock into the man’s head; he quickly turned on his heel to slam the musket into the head of d’Artagnan’s opponent. The Gascon nodded his thanks to his brother as they stepped over the soldiers to continue on their way.

The three men ran from room to room until they finally reached the bedchamber where the rest of the group anxiously waited for their return. The men ran into the room to find bodies lying on the floor, blood pooling beside the unmoving forms. 

“Oh God!” D’Artagnan gasped at the sight. His chest heaved from running down the hallway and had to lean over at the waist to catch his breath. The Gascon grimaced as pain in his shoulder flared and the fresh wound on his head stung; blood from the head wound trickled down his ear and streaked down his neck.

“What happened here?” Aramis ran to d’Artagnan to examine the head wound. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the medic let out a sigh. “Looks like the ball skimmed along your head just under the bandage. Good thing you had this thick bandage around your head or you’d be missing a good chunk of your skull.” 

“Never thought I’d be so happy to have received a head wound in all my life,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “That fall to the floor earlier probably just saved my life.”

“It’s that hard head of yours,” Aramis chuckled. “Wait, what’s this?” The medic took a step back to stare at the weaponry around d’Artagnan’s waist. He looked up at the Gascon with raised eyebrows. "Well, don’t you look like a mercenary; that’s my weapons belt and sword you’re wearing.”

"That was my idea,” Porthos interrupted. “We kinda had our hands full runnin’ down ‘ere; didn’t have room to carry anythin' more.”

“What the hell?” Aramis blurted as he saw Porthos’ bleeding neck. “What happened to your neck? Let me take a look at that.” The medic pulled the large Musketeer to him so he could get a better look at the pieces of stone embedded in the flesh. “Hmm, some of these pieces are in deep,” he frowned. “I’m going to have to dig these out…”

“No time, we’ve got more soldiers coming up!” Athos yelled. “At this rate we’re going to be overrun shortly; we can’t keep holding them off . . .” his voice trailed as he took a shot at a soldier, dropping him in place on the stairs. 

“Who are these people?” Doctor Berteau asked. “Where did they come from?”

“They’re Spanish soldiers,” Aramis answered, trading worried glances with Athos. “Where they came from exactly, I don’t know.”

“Spanish soldiers this far north?” Athos was stunned. “Why would Spaniards be in Blois, at the château in particular? Where _exactly_ is Duke Gaston?” The Musketeer coughed as he wiped sweat dripping from his brow. 

“The Spaniards are _ejército de tierra,_ infantry, or ground army, in other words,” Aramis explained. “Why they are in Blois, I have no idea; I wonder if this has anything to do with Captain Tréville’s quick exit out of here a few days ago?”

“What do you mean, ‘quick exit'?” Athos rasped. The lieutenant wasn’t even aware of the captain’s departure, having been unconscious and under the steam tent when he had left.

“I knew something strange was going on with him,” Aramis shook his head. “He said that he had business to attend to back at home, but said nothing more. The captain’s mannerism was tense as though he was anxious about something, but he wouldn’t say what. Something big has happened; the _ejército de tierra_ wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“I wish the captain had stayed here,” d’Artagnan groaned. “We could really use his help right now.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos disagreed. “If the cap’n had been ‘ere, then he’d be in the same damn situation as us right now.”

“What we need is for the captain to come down here and bring the regiment along with him,” Athos growled. “We can’t hold them off much longer; our ammunition is running low. If we don’t get some help here very soon… we’re in very serious trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ejército de Tierra_ translated literally means 'army of the ground (infantry).'
> 
> The attack of the Château de Blois is completely fictional. I thought it would be an interesting twist to the story and fun to make the boys fight, soldier against soldier, even though they are still sick and/or hurt. 
> 
> Here is an interesting fact regarding the position of steward of a château/castle/palace, as I have grown quite fond of our friendly steward, Steward Eriq Fontaine:
> 
> A lord would need a vast array of officers and servants to run a château/castle/palace. When the lord had obligations that took him away from the castle his main representative was the steward. The steward had substantial power of his own, because he had to know virtually everything that went on at the castle and in the surrounding estates. He had to be skilled at accounting and legal matters, as well as calculating the revenue from taxes and the money spent by the lord.  
> The Steward was head of all the castle staff, managing all personnel except for military personnel; and he was also the head of the lord's court in his absence. In this way, the lord had an immense load taken off his shoulders through the help of a steward.


	27. The Captain Saves the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bonjour, I am Captain Tréville of the King’s Musketeer’s,” the captain yelled to the troops alerted by the breaking glass. “I am with my Musketeers, as well as Eriq Fontaine, Steward of Château de Blois; we are under attack on the second floor...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, Steward Fontaine and the Musketeers continue their fight against the Spanish... and Captain Tréville arrives to Save the Day-along with some very unexpected help! There is also some very unexpected trouble...

Without warning, the hallway exploded with a surge of gunfire coming from the staircase; more soldiers appeared down the hall as soldiers poured onto the second floor. The four Musketeers sprang into action, shooting soldiers if they charged into the room. Doctor Molyneux worked feverishly to keep the assembly line of empty to loaded muskets moving quickly.

Doctor Molyneux shot a soldier dead as he aimed his weapon at Athos from behind; as another Spaniard trained his weapon on the doctor, a second shot rang out. The startled physician turned to find Doctor Berteau lowering his pistol, his face marked with horror and relief.

“Porthos!” Aramis struggled for control of a musket clutched tightly in the hands of a soldier, the two men locked in a tug-of-war. Suddenly, the Spaniard gained the upper hand by smacking the medic on the forehead with the butt of his musket; the Musketeer fell to the floor dazed and bleeding.

As the Spanish soldier lowered the musket to shoot Aramis, Porthos grabbed the weapon by its barrel and shoved it upward, just as the soldier pulled the trigger. The ball blew a hole in the ceiling, spraying the men with pieces of plaster. 

The large Musketeer easily wrestled the musket free from the hands of the enemy soldier. With both hands wrapped firmly around the barrel, Porthos swung the weapon like an ax; he hit the soldier with the stock of the firearm hard against the side of his head with a crunch. “Go to hell,” he growled.

Porthos knelt beside Aramis and gently rolled him onto his back. “Bloody hell, ‘Mis,” he cursed as blood poured down the medic’s face. The larger man took out a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound to stop the bleeding. "Keep pressure on ‘at,” he ordered. “Looks like you’re goin’ to ‘av another scar on ‘at pretty forehead of yours.”

“Mmm,” Aramis groaned, still half-dazed.

D’Artagnan was caught in his own desperate struggle as a soldier had his musket firmly pressed against the Gascon’s throat, strangling him. Athos shoved his main gauche into the man's back, sending him face-first to the floor with the dagger jutting out.

“We can’t hold them anymore!” D’Artagnan croaked to Athos, having recovered well enough to shoot a soldier in the hallway. “There are too many of them… and they keep coming,” he yelled. The Gascon soon became engaged in yet another heated hand-to-hand struggle. With renewed strength, the Gascon whipped his pistol across the Spaniard's forehead, knocking him to the floor. He shot the man dead, then kicked the musket into the room to be added to their growing cache of weapons.

Just then, Athos was overcome with a fit of coughing that had him doubled over, attempting to catch his breath; he never saw the Spanish soldier approaching from behind. The Spaniard grabbed the Musketeer’s main gauche from his dead comrade’s body and put it to the lieutenant's neck, taking him by surprise.

The soldier backed down the hallway with his hostage in tow. The Musketeer tried to struggle, but the hacking coughs had sapped his strength and had left him too weak to fight back.

“Whoa, you don’t want to do ‘at,” Porthos warned the soldier with a threatening growl. “He’s got the plague; ‘at’s why he’s coughin’ so much.” The large Musketeer fibbed in attempt to save his brother.

The Spanish soldier’s forehead furrowed with confusion, not comprehending what Porthos said. Aramis gave his friend a nod, indicating that he had an idea; a glint of mischief glowed in his eyes.

“La plaga,” Aramis translated to the Spaniard. The soldier’s face paled as he understood what was said of the sick man in his arms. With disgust, he dropped Athos, deliberately allowing the Musketeer’s neck to slide along the dagger’s sharp edge as he fell to the floor.

*****

Captain Tréville and his group of six Musketeers arrived at the Château de Blois to find soldiers running through the courtyard with muskets; the sound of gunfire echoed from inside the château. “What the hell is going on there?” the captain yelled. The group of Musketeers jumped from their horses and ran toward the melee with pistols in hand.

Tréville shot a soldier coming through the front doors carrying a small bust of the king; the figure shattered into pieces when it fell from the dead man's hands. The other six Musketeers spread out around the side of the château, taking cover behind the stone pillars of the arched breezeway, as they picked off Spaniards running by. 

Three of the Musketeers chased after a group of soldiers running across the courtyard to the château’s spiral staircase. They gave chase up the stairs with one Musketeer following a soldier to the second floor; one to the third floor; and one to the fourth.

Tréville and the remaining men ran to the front of the château, staying close to the pillars for cover; they continued through the grand entrance, into the grand foyer. The men spotted soldiers running through the hallways to the rooms, pillaging and ransacking whatever their hearts desired. No one was around to stop them.

The Captain of the Musketeers focused on the furious sound of gunfire coming from the second floor. He instantly recognized the familiar sound of the Musketeer wheellock pistols returning fire and grew increasingly alarmed. "Dammit, we need to get upstairs!" he whispered harshly to his men. He ran toward the staircase, knowing not of the chaos or mayhem he would find his four best Musketeers embroiled in.

Tréville and his men hid on both sides of the sweeping staircase, behind large marble pedestals topped with ornate statues of golden angels. The men waited until the Spaniards were occupied with their looting; then they opened fire, surprising the enemy soldiers and taking them out of the fight.

The four men skipped up the stairs to just outside the bedchamber where the incapacitated Musketeers were caught in a desperate fight for their lives. The rescuers quickly reloaded their pistols and drew their swords; they charged into the room, ready to shoot enemy soldiers dead or run them through with the sword.

“Captain!” the men cried out in unison, overcome with relief. Aramis took advantage of the lull to pull himself across the floor until he was next to Athos’ bleeding form; his shaking fingers zeroed in on the neck, checking the severity of the damage done.

“My God, what the hell happened to him?” Captain Tréville shouted. “Was he shot?"

“No, he wasn’t shot,” Aramis promptly replied. “He was cut with a blade; it looks like his stitches were sliced through.”

“Let me take a look at him.” Doctor Molyneux dropped down beside the medic and began examining the neck wound. “Take your handkerchief and apply heavy pressure,” he instructed Aramis. “We need to stop the bleeding before we can do anything else." 

“I cannot _believe_ this!” Aramis yelled in frustration, at wit’s end with the additional wounds this new attack has caused each of them. “Athos was just beginning to heal, dammit!” the medic cursed as he applied pressure to his friend’s neck. He ducked suddenly as another shot rang out from the hallway, hitting the doorframe and sending wooden splinters flying.

Porthos ran to the doorway and readied his pistol. He waited for the soldier to come closer before drawing down on him; he killed the Spaniard with a shot to the chest. “Captain, there’s more soldiers comin'!” 

“Aramis, are you well enough to help?” the captain yelled as he shot a soldier, coming down the hall. 

“Go on Aramis, I can take care of Athos,” Doctor Molyneux nodded. “I’ll keep pressure on his neck until the bleeding slows, but right now your captain needs you.”

D’Artagnan and Steward Fontaine stood on each side of the doorway as Porthos stepped back into the room to reload. The two men aimed their pistols then shot two soldiers; they watched as the men fell backwards and tumbled down the steps. Before the Gascon could withdraw his pistol, a ball hit the weapon and sent it flying from the Musketeer’s hand. 

“Dammit,” he yelled as the weapon skidded to a stop several feet down the hall. 

“Let me in there, brother.” Porthos pushed d’Artagnan out of the way to stand flush with the wall. The Musketeer carefully peeked around the corner but a soldier was ready; he shot as soon as he saw the curly-haired man’s head. 

Porthos quickly threw himself back against the wall as he heard the shot ring out but not before the ball creased his skin, just above his right eyebrow. “Ah, bloody hell,” the large Musketeer cursed as he wiped away the blood flowing into his eyes.

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened at the sight of his friend’s bleeding head. “Porthos, are you alright?” The Gascon noticed movement on the staircase and turned to shoot a soldier just as he was about to charge into the room. The young Musketeer fell against the wall and let out a sigh; the relief was short-lived as he frowned at his wounded friend. "Let me take a look at it.”

“I’m fine,” Porthos growled. “The ball just grazed me; I could hear it buzzin’ as it flew by me like a damn bee.” 

“My friend, think of it this way.” Aramis creased his brow, studying the wound. “Now you’ll have a scar above your right eye to match the one above your left,” he chuckled.

Porthos glared at the medic. “That’s rubbish,” he growled. “I don’t need no more scars”

“The scars impress the ladies,” d’Artagnan chimed in. “They’ll _really_ be impressed with this story—if we ever get out of here to tell it.”

Just then, there was the sound of a wheellock pistol firing at the end of the hallway in the left wing; the shot was soon followed by another and then another before it was finally quiet.

The Musketeers in the room exchanged confused glances before turning to Captain Tréville, who wore a relieved smile. “Ah, those are your other three comrades; the men were eliminating Spaniards on other floors of the château.”

“Captain, what the hell is going on here?” D’Artagnan voiced harshly, having gone beyond losing his patience with the Spanish soldiers. “How many more soldiers are there?”

“I can only conjecture. . . based on the events over the last few days…” the captain paused. _How do I tell the men about Gaston, the Queen, the conspiracy—everything that’s happened?_

“Cap’n, you’re not makin’ sense.” Porthos shook his head.

“I’ll have to sit down and tell you everything, but now is not the time,” the captain replied tersely. “We need to secure the château against further attack.”

At that moment, they heard the sound of scattered gunshots in the courtyard, soon followed by the yelled of orders to form company. "Un, deux…” 

“What the…?” Aramis exchanged puzzled glances with his brothers and Captain Tréville.

D’Artagnan and Captain Tréville rushed to the windows to look and see what was going on in the courtyard. The Gascon emitted a whoop of celebration at the scene before his eyes.

The rest of the Musketeers rushed to the windows and soon joined in with the cheering. Down in the château courtyard, the men viewed French Army troops falling into formation in disciplined rows, perfectly uniform and dressed right, as they faced their commander. While the main company of soldiers stood in formation, a squad of French soldiers patrolled the area, searching for wayward Spanish troops. Movement on the spiral staircase was detected, triggering the squad into giving chase to the Spanish soldiers.

“I need to get out there and let them know we’re in here,” Captain Tréville declared impatiently.

“No, Cap’n,” Porthos warned. “It’s not safe to go out there yet,” he motioned toward the hallway.

“Captain, if you step out there, you could be shot from a soldier hiding in any of those rooms,” Aramis protested. “We don’t know how many are still out there, waiting for us to let our guard down.”

“Steward Fontaine, do you think Duke Gaston will mind if we break one of these windows?” d’Artagnan asked as he inspected the window with a scowl on his face. “I don’t see any way to open these damn windows!”

“I do not think that we have an alternative, my young Musketeer friend,” the steward smiled. “Besides, a window can be replaced; a life cannot.”

“Stand back.” Captain Tréville cautioned the men as he readied his pistol to break a pane of glass. He looked down to the courtyard below to ensure no troops would be hurt by falling glass and then, with a swift flick of his wrist, the captain broke the glass; the broken shards spiraled downward and then shattered on the ground.

“Bonjour, I am Captain Tréville of the King’s Musketeer’s,” the captain yelled to the alerted troops. “I am with ten of my Musketeers, as well as Eriq Fontaine, Steward of Château de Blois; we have wounded men here in the second floor bedchamber, across from the staircase. There are Spanish soldiers scattered everywhere in the château, but particularly on the second floor,” he warned.

The captain watched as the French commander gave orders to the company to go in search of the Spaniards. The soldiers were ordered to clear the château of the enemy, paying special attention to the second floor. After the building was secure, he would meet with the captain of the Musketeers.

The sound of scattered gunfire thundered throughout the château, mixing with yelling and cursing in Spanish and in French. Steward Fontaine, Captain Tréville and the unwounded Musketeers ran to the doorway of their room with pistols loaded, each ready to shoot Spaniards attempting to escape.

Aramis jumped into action as he saw a Spaniard rush from across the hall toward their room. The medic shot the soldier, hitting the man in the abdomen, but still the soldier charged forward. “Damn” the marksman cursed. “Porthos…”

The large Musketeer shot the Spaniard, felling the soldier with a ball to the chest. The captain and the steward shot at soldiers emerging from the room diagonally across the hall just as a squad of French troops bounded up the stairs.

French soldiers poured up the staircases on both ends of the second floor, shooting Spanish soldiers as they swept from room to room. 

Captain Tréville and Steward Fontaine took advantage of the many French troops milling through the château to go downstairs and meet with the French commander still waiting in the courtyard.

Aramis stepped into the hallway to assess the situation when a young Frenchman spotted the Musketeer. Thinking he was a Spanish soldier, the tense Frenchman opened fire on the medic from the stairs. The marksman fell backward from impact; he slumped against the wall, then slid to the ground as blood poured from his upper thigh. 

“Why did you shoot, damn you?” d’Artagnan screamed at the soldier. “Aramis is with us! Dammit, he’s a Musketeer; you just shot a Musketeer!”


	28. Luck of the Nine Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The captain walked away to get some fresh air—to get some privacy—as he was about to lose control over his emotions in that sickroom. His men just _had_ to recover and get back to normal; he wasn’t going to allow himself a moment to think otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the four boys find themselves being mended back together. Listen in on the four very different conversations taking place with each of the boys.

Porthos scooped up the medic in his arms and carried him to the bed where he gently laid him next to Athos. Doctor Berteau worked at cutting away the medic’s pants with a pocketknife as Porthos held a cloth against the leg to staunch the bleeding.

Doctor Molyneux still tended to Athos, holding a bloodied cloth to the Musketeer’s neck. At the moment, the physician could do little more than control the bleeding due to Cécile having taken both medical bags to resupply the kits before the shooting began. Unfortunately, this left the doctors with no medical equipment in the room.

“D’Artagnan, go see if you can find Cécile,” Doctor Molyneux ordered. “We need our medical kits—needles and thread especially—and we need them immediately!”

“Porthos, keep putting pressure on the wound while I take a peek to assess the damage,” Doctor Berteau instructed. He carefully removed a portion of the cloth, fully expecting a gushing spurt of blood as pressure was removed; when nothing happened, the physician removed the cloth to examine the wound more thoroughly. He watched the flow of blood coming from the wound and held his breath.

After several seconds of intense examination, the doctor let out a cry of delighted relief. “I believe the ball missed the artery; I see no spurting of blood with his heartbeat, which is very good news!” Berteau exclaimed to the men. “Whether the ball hit the bone, I will not know until I do surgery, but it appears our dear medic was spared when that ball missed the femoral artery.”

“We need a few moments of peace and quiet-- without the exchange of gunfire-- so we can begin acting like doctors and treating our patients! Instead, we have been relegated to soldiers or recluses in hiding, while fearing for our lives,” Doctor Molyneux grumbled. “Athos needs his neck stitched; Aramis needs his forehead stitched—and now his leg too; Porthos, you need to get those stone shards removed from your neck, and that cut above your eye stitched; d’Artagnan needs that head wound looked at. Good God, what more could possibly go wrong that hasn’t already?”

“Don’t ask!” Porthos growled as the Gascon returned with Cécile and the desired medical kits. The nurse stood in the doorway, frozen in shock, at the bloody scene in the room.

“Mother Mary, what happened in here?” Cécile gasped, her jaw dropping open. Her eyes scanned around the room in horror as she clung tightly to the medical bags in her hands.

“Don’t ask!” the doctors replied in unison. “Nevermind, we have urgent work to do.” Molyneux grabbed his bag from the nurse then dug through it for his sutures kit.

“Oh God, Aramis,” Cécile cried out as she rushed to his side. “What happened to him?”

“Didn’t I just say _don’t ask?”_ Doctor Molyneux scolded. “Aramis requires surgery on his leg _and_ he needs stitches for that cut on his forehead; Doctor Berteau will need a nurse to assist him. Either pull yourself together, Cécile, or I’ll get another nurse to take your place.”

“No, I’m staying,” the nurse replied with determination. “I love Aramis and _I_ will be his nurse—no one else. What do you need me to do, Doctor Berteau?”

“What _don’t_ I need my nurse to do?” Doctor Berteau growled. “We have four patients again, as we did when we first arrived at the château. Just as the men were recovering and healing nicely, they were hurt again; now everyone is right back where they started.”

“It’s beginning to feel like we’re going in circles!” Doctor Molyneux kicked a bloodied pistol across the floor. “The mayhem caused to these Musketeers has been relentless and cruel; it is a wonder any of them still draws breath. If this has been the work of some higher power for entertainment’s sake—perhaps out of boredom—so help me…” 

"Doctor Molyneux, please!” Cécile interrupted the uncharacteristic rant. The country physician was obviously under stress and was feeling more than fed up with the continuous suffering forced on the Musketeers.

“Doctor, why don’t we focus on getting the men taken care of," Cécille suggested calmly. "We have much work to do and it doesn't do any good to complain about circumstances that we had no control over. Let’s get to work, shall we?”

*****

**Aramis:**

Doctor Berteau poured wine over the gunshot wound in Aramis’ thigh and dried it with a towel; he then took the scalpel and cut along the wound to examine the damage internally. The doctor and nurse worked quietly as the leg was carefully examined; the duo worked in silence for such a time that when the doctor finally voiced his thoughts, it startled Cécile. 

“The luck of these boys,” the doctor said, shaking his head with disgust. “That’s a contradictory statement, isn’t it? These are the most _unlucky_ lucky boys I’ve ever encountered.”

“Whatever do you mean, doctor?” Cécile asked, puzzled.

“I understand these boys are Musketeers and their job is very dangerous—sometimes deadly—but I have never known a group of men who manage to get themselves into more trouble than this foursome," the doctor huffed. "Somehow, these men always manage to squeak by-- not that I'm complaining.”

“Doctor Berteau!” Cécile exclaimed in surprise.

“I do not want anything to happen to these boys, mind you," Doctor Berteau sighed. "But Aramis cheated death once before when the musket ball grazed the side of his head in Torfou; now he’s done it again with this leg wound.”

“How so, doctor?” Cécile wiped away the blood as it seeped from the wound.

“The ball went through the fleshy right side of his thigh, missing the major arteries in the center and completely missing the bone! Incredibly, if he _had_ to be wounded, this was how it should happen,” the doctor smiled. “He’ll be hobbling around with a sore leg for a while, but at least he’s alive—and with both legs intact!”

“Since the ball traveled through the leg cleanly, does that mean there will be no permanent damage?” Cécile asked as she swabbed the wound.

“Well, there shouldn't be any permanent damage, but I'll need to complete the surgery before I can determine a final prognosis,” the doctor replied truthfully. “I will make sure there is no fabric embedded in this wound; I’m also going to further examine around the bone before we close him up.” Berteau probed through the open wound with his tweezers searching for any foreign objects, such as fabric or lead.

“Ah, here we go.” Berteau nodded at finding a small piece of clothing embedded deep inside the femoral muscle. “I need you to hold the wound open while I use the tweezers to remove that fragment,” he ordered the nurse.

Doctor Berteau used the tool’s sharp tip and hooked retractor to gently pull out the fragment. “Pour some more brandy over the towel so I can swab the area.” The doctor then carefully swabbed around the wound and dried it. “I need the probing tool, please,” he instructed.

Cécile dried the wound more thoroughly then handed the doctor the requested tool. Once again, the duo worked in complete silence as the doctor probed around the thigh to make sure the femur was still intact. Finding the bone undamaged, the doctor sutured the entrance wound on the front of the thigh. 

Carefully, the team turned the patient onto his side and then repeated the same procedure on the outer edge of the thigh where the ball had exited. The exit wound took the team more time and effort to repair, as the flesh was torn ragged from the ball pushing out. Once the work was complete, they sanitized the wound and then wrapped it tightly with a clean bandage.

“Now, let us stitch up that hard head of his,” the doctor said as they rolled Aramis onto his back.

“He does have a hard head, indeed,” Cécile chuckled. “It’s that stubborn nature of his; he refuses to let a ball stop him—or the butt of a musket. Oh, a musket ball may bring him down, but Aramis is just ornery enough to declare how far he’ll _allow_ the ball to bring him down,” the nurse laughed.

“Oi, that’s ‘Mis all right,” Porthos chimed in, chuckling. “You haven’t known him ‘at long, but you already have ‘im figured out right proper.”

The jovial comment elicited a round of laughter in the make-shift surgical room where each Musketeer was being worked on by either a physician or a nurse. Porthos was busy flirting with his nurse as she attempted to pull the fragments from his neck, which he wasn’t making easy for her.

**Porthos:**

Nurse Adele was doing her best to pluck the shrapnel from Porthos’ neck with a sharp set of tweezers, but the large man didn’t want to sit still. “Monsieur Porthos, if you don’t stop squirming, I may have to tie you down!” the pretty blonde nurse blurted.

“Oi, ‘at doesn’t sound too bad.” Porthos grinned at the nurse and winked.

“Um, maybe I should rephrase that,” the nurse giggled, her face flushed red. “How about we tie you to this chair, then have either doctor Berteau or Molyneux remove the shrapnel, hmm?”

“I’ll be still,” Porthos replied, looking deflated as his shoulders sagged. “But hey, both doctors are busy.”

“Well, that didn’t last long,” the nurse chuckled. “Now, sit still…” Adele pulled out a piece of stone and dropped it into the porcelain tub with a _clink!_ She pulled on another piece but had to stop when the large man flinched, causing her to poke his neck with the sharp edge of the tool.

“Ouch,” Porthos growled, then began his squirming anew. “Sorry,” he apologized, sheepishly.

“Well, for such a big strong man, you sure do squirm a lot,” Adele scolded. The nurse used the tool as an extension of her wagging finger, but paused as an idea came to mind. “Would some wine help calm you?”

“That is _exactly_ why Aramis has Athos ‘prepare the patient’ _before_ beginning treatment on Porthos,” d’Artagnan quipped from the chair next to his friend.

“What do you mean, ‘prepare the patient', d’Artagnan?” Adele asked, pointing the sharp tool toward the Gascon.

D’Artagnan stared at the tool with wide eyes; he moved over to the edge of his seat until he was out of the nurse's reach. “Oh, that is Aramis’ way of preventing Porthos from squirming while he’s performing surgery.” D’Artagnan grinned at Porthos, who narrowed his eyes at his young friend.

“What does Aramis do?” Adele asked, her eyes darting between Porthos and d’Artagnan. Porthos gave a throaty growl, but d’Artagnan simply grinned back.

“He has Athos knock him out.” The Gascon shrugged, then winked at his friend. “Athos throws a good punch—knocks Porthos out cold every time.”

“Why, that’s barbaric!” Adele gasped. 

“Whatever works,” d’Artagnan chuckled.

“Speak for yourself," Porthos growled again.

“Alright, not another word from either of you boys-- especially from you, d’Artagnan,” the nurse chided. “You are too much of a distraction and I can’t get my work done. Please, give me silence!” Adele muttered, dropping a fragment into the tub. _Clink!_

Nurse Adele pulled out the remaining pieces of stone from Porthos’ neck in blessed silence; she was able to work quickly without the unnecessary distractions. Resigned, the large Musketeer behaved and stopped squirming, deciding it was best to keep still and quiet. He appeared to have fallen asleep, until jolted to alertness as the nurse removed the last stubborn fragment. _Clink!_

“There, all the fragments are out,” the nurse reported. “Now, I’ll stitch up the larger wounds and that area above your eye; I will then apply witch hazel and juniper salve to prevent infection. I’ll bandage you up when I’m done with the salve.”

“Alright, 'at's good,” Porthos yawned. It seemed the humor and bantering had dissolved into sleepiness. 

The nurse carefully stitched the neck wound closed then began work on the wound above his eye. Once the stitching was complete, she cleaned the wounds thoroughly with brandy and dried the skin with a towel. Adele rubbed the healing salve in calming circles over the various wounds, being careful not to cause pain. As her gentle fingers rubbed and massaged the medicine into the skin, the nurse soothed away the tension and soreness of his muscles with a light touch.

“Mmm,” Porthos moaned softly. Suddenly, his infectious smile returned to his face as he gave a wink to the nurse. “You can do the rest of my body jus’ like ‘is.”

“Oooh,” the nurse threw her hands up with exasperation. “You are insufferable, Porthos! Are you always like this with your caregivers?”

“Only the pretty nurses,” Porthos bobbed his head in a rascally manner. “I don’t get ‘em too often, you know.”

“I can see that.” Nurse Adele finished bandaging his neck, then she squeezed his shoulders softly. “Now, I expect that you will give yourself time to heal—don’t go looking for any trouble.”

“Well, 'at depends on what kind of trouble you’re referrin’ to,” he replied with a grin.

“Argh… you men are like children!”

D’Artagnan snickered softly and rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, but not all of us, Nurse Adele,” he corrected. “Porthos and Aramis are like children, yes,” the Gascon grinned. “But Athos and me, well, we’re far more mature,” he winked.

“Is ‘at a fact, whelp?” Porthos growled. . . again.

“That’s a fact,” d’Artagnan replied pointedly. The Gascon scooted his chair out of Porthos’ reach, much to the amusement of the nurses.

**d’Artagnan:**

“Alright, if you two boys are quite done playing games, I’d like to take care of this head wound,” Nurse Marta huffed with amusement.

“Yes, I’m ready.” D’Artagnan closed his eyes and relaxed.

Nurse Marta unwrapped the old bandage from the Gascon’s head and winced at the angry cut across his scalp. “Does it hurt much?” she asked. The nurse raised her eyebrows at the luck of this young Musketeer; as a nurse, she knew this wound could have easily been fatal.

“It’s a little sore… but I’ve had worse,” d’Artagnan grumbled.

“Yes, I can see that,” she said, pointing to the black and blue bruise above his eyebrow. Nurse Marta decided to engage her patient in conversation in order to distract him while she treated the wound. “Now, I’ll bet you have plenty of young ladies throwing themselves at you,” she mused aloud as she cleaned the blood from his skin.

“Not really,” d’Artagnan shrugged with disinterest. “Besides, I have someone special; I don’t pay attention to the other girls.”

“Oh, come now,” Marta replied with surprise. “A handsome young man like yourself. . . has given up flirting?”

“Yes, is that so strange?”

“What’s her name?”

“Constance,” d’Artagnan sighed at the thought of her.

“Constance,” the nurse repeated. “That is a pretty name,” she threaded a suture. “Is she as pretty as her name?”

“No, prettier,” the Gascon replied dreamily. But suddenly, the Musketeer’s demeanor soured. “Is she going to be repulsed by all my scars? Will Constance still think of me the same after she sees… all of this?” D’Artagnan waved a hand over the many lacerations from the whipping.

“Of course she will, d’Artagnan,” Nurse Marta paused her ministrations. “If she loves you—I mean, if she _really_ loves you—the scars will do nothing to lessen her opinion of you. Those scars,” the nurse gently touched the Gascon’s forehead and shoulder, “will not diminish her love for _you.”_

“Do you really believe that?” D’Artagnan’s voice cracked as he fought to control his emotions, swallowing a sob. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” he asked, wiping away a tear from his cheek.

“Yes, I mean it,” Nurse Marta replied as tears welled in her own eyes. “My husband,” she paused, “my _late_ husband came back from the war so disfigured my family suggested that I put him in _Hôtel-Dieu_ and leave him there; they wanted me to find someone less… scarred.”

“What did you do?”

“I took care of him,” she smiled as she completed another suture. “I bathed his wounds; I cleaned and dressed where they had amputated his leg; I kissed his scars. I would have cared for him and loved him—just as he was—until my dying day.” The nurse wiped away her tears. “Instead, God wanted my husband’s broken and battered body to rest and his spirit to be at peace.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Marta.”

“Thank you,” Marta nodded, completing another suture. “Now, no more of this doubt about your Constance not loving you because of your scars. If she loves you less, or quits loving you because of this,” she waved her hand up and down in front of his chest and head, “then she never really loved you to begin with.”

“I never thought of it that way,” d’Artagnan whispered. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my dear,” Nurse Marta replied as she pulled on the thread. “Being a nurse has taught me quite a bit about human nature and behavior; it doesn’t vary much between two people who really care about each other. Now, sit quietly so I can finish suturing this wound.” She completed another stitch. “You boys really are the luckiest things on two legs. Are you sure you weren’t a cat in your previous life?”

“A cat?” d’Artagnan asked, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard of the superstition of cats having nine lives? It appears cats are quite hardy and can withstand some amazing falls and accidents that would normally kill anything else—but not the cat,” Nurse Marta laughed. “I think you Musketeers are all cats in human form. Certainly with the many injuries and near-misses like you boys have had; I'm afraid you have spent a few of those nine lives already.”

“Ouch!” D’Artagnan winced as Nurse Marta pulled the thread through a tender spot on his scalp. “I wouldn’t call myself, or any of my brothers for that matter, lucky. Especially considering everything we’ve been through these last few weeks… months,” he huffed with disgust. “I think we are about the unluckiest men on the planet; the only fate not brought down on us—yet—is death.”

“Now don’t you talk like that, young man,” the nurse admonished. She finished with the sutures, knotted and cut the thread below the knot. “Be thankful—always be thankful—that you still draw breath. No matter how much you have suffered. . . at least you are still alive.”

“I didn’t feel that way at all when I was being tortured in the dungeon,” he whispered softly.

“But you _survived,_ young man. You survived to return to your Constance; you survived to return to Paris with your brothers. You survived, and you still have an entire future ahead of you,” she paused as she wrapped a new bandage around d’Artagnan’s head. “Never wish for death; death is permanent and it can never be turned back.”

**Athos:**

Captain Tréville returned to the room, after meeting with the French commander, to find Aramis being operated on. “What happened to him?” the captain asked, his face creased with worry. “When I left, he only had the wound on his forehead.”

“Just after you left to go outside, Aramis was shot by a Frenchman who mistook him for a Spanish soldier,” d’Artagnan replied. The Gascon shook his head with disgust at the memory. “That soldier shouldn’t have been so quick to fire; Aramis wasn’t in a Spanish uniform.”

“It was a mistake, d’Artagnan. . . an accident,” Doctor Berteau interjected. “I’m sure the young man feels terrible for what he did. Don’t make the situation any worse by placing undue blame.”

“Undue blame?” d’Artagnan repeated incredulously. “That soldier could have killed Aramis!”

“Yes, he could have, d’Artagnan, but he didn't,” Captain Tréville cautioned. "Right now, the fact that Aramis is alive is the most important outcome.” With a nod, the captain turned his attention to Athos.

“How is he, Doctor?” Tréville asked Molyneux sitting beside Athos on the bed.

“It appears that the knife cut through his sutures and cut into his jugular again,” Molyneux replied. “I believe that I’ve stopped the bleeding and I was about to repair the vein and replace the stitches.”

“Do you need help with anything?” Tréville offered. 

“Why yes,” Molyneux nodded with appreciation. “I could use an assistant, thank you. Why don’t you take that brandy and clean all around the wound; be sure to dry the area thoroughly. I will thread this needle while you do that, then we’ll get started.”

Captain Tréville did as he was instructed; he poured the wine liberally over Athos’ neck then dried it with a towel. He stayed beside Athos, taking his limp hand in his own as he whispered near his ear. “This is the definition of déjà vu,” the captain muttered to his lieutenant. “Only this time, I’m not the one stitching your neck.”

“It was just a few days ago that I stitched your neck after finding you covered in all that blood,” the captain shuddered. “In all my years as a soldier, I don’t think I’ve witnessed anything more gruesome than this room on that night.”

“I didn’t think this room could get any bloodier than it was on that night,” Molyneux agreed as he looked around the room. The dead bodies had been removed, but their blood remained pooled on the floor. 

“We need to have someone come in here to clean up this floor,” the captain suggested. “This room reeks of death and blood; I would prefer it if we moved them to a new room.”

“Normally, I would agree with you, but I don’t think it would be wise to move the men just yet,” Molyneux replied as he pulled the thread. “Captain, if you would hold the skin together for me, we can get this done more efficiently. Indeed, it’s such a shame these stitches were torn; your needle work on his neck was excellent. Have you ever considered being a doctor?”

“Me, a doctor?” Tréville repeated with a huff. “No, not at all. Being a soldier—a Musketeer—is all I ever wanted to be; I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I do, however, get plenty of medical practice with these four men; they seem to find trouble around every corner.”

“Well, the men are very lucky to have someone like you in command. You are someone very well-equipped to do the job as captain of the regiment, but yet you still maintain your humanity; you obviously have affection for the men under your command.” Molyneux tied off the last stitch and cut the thread. “I’ve seen many commanders who couldn’t care less about the lives or the welfare of the men they send into battle. It is obvious that you care deeply for these men-- it has not gone unnoticed.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“We are almost done here,” Molyneux said as sanitized Athos’ neck with the brandy. He carefully wrapped the neck with a long strip of cloth bandage then nodded with satisfaction at the completed work. “Would you like to sit with him a while, in case he awakens?”

“Thank you, I would,” Captain Tréville nodded as he curled his fingers around the cold hand of his lieutenant. He gently pushed away clumps of sweaty hair from the pale face, then sighed. “What would I ever do without you?”

“As your captain, these last few months have been a nightmare. First, arriving at the Château de Chamarande to find all of you so terribly wounded; it scared me more than I can ever admit. Images of escorting your lifeless bodies back to Paris have haunted my dreams, many a night.”

“Then with the catarrh outbreak, so many of my men were sick and dying, yet there was nothing I could do to stop it. I am Captain of the King’s Musketeers, but I was powerless against a silent enemy. My regiment was at the mercy of the reaper; I battled an enemy over which I had no control and no winning strategy. There was nothing I could do to save my dying men.”

“When I was informed of you being so desperately ill, I feared for you every hour of the day and night. I feared that every knock on my door would bring news of your death. I had long since given up my faith, yet when you fell ill, I began praying again. I guess that it worked, because you and your brothers, and the rest of the men recovered.”

“Then _this_ had to happen. It started with that damned letter! Your brothers being tortured in the dungeon; Aramis attacked and beaten; you falling ill with bronchitis; Doctor Bonét draining away your blood; the Spaniards attacking. . .”

“God, of all the terrible sights, that bloody scene was the worst. I thought I had lost you. . . I thought you were gone.”

“I told you that night I thought of you as a son, and I do,” he paused. The captain cleared his throat, discreetly wiping away a tear rolling down his cheek. “I do consider you to be the son I never had; I never thought I could care so deeply about someone as I do you, Athos.”

“As your captain, I could order you to fight this. Once again, injuries and illness plague your body, but orders to fight would seem so cold and shallow. Instead, I will plead, as though a father to his sick child, for you to fight and get well again. Please. You have filled an empty place in my heart; to lose you now, it would break my heart beyond repair.”

“Get well and fight this, son.” The captain stood, then leaned over to kiss Athos’ forehead. With one last gentle sweep over the Musketeer’s messy hair, Captain Tréville left the room choking back a sob threatening to erupt from somewhere deep inside. 

The captain walked away to get some fresh air—to get some privacy—as he was about to lose control over his emotions in that sickroom. His men just _had_ to recover and get back to normal; he wasn’t going to allow himself a moment to think otherwise. 

Captain Tréville had come too dangerously close to losing his men because of this mission—because of that letter. 

_That letter!_

Tomorrow, the captain promised himself, he would find out exactly what was in that letter; he would find out what caused this series of disasters he never thought possible. _“Did Porthos and d’Artagnan carry a treasonous letter calling for the start of some conspiracy?”_

 _“Did the King’s Musketeers carry a letter calling for removal of the very king they served? This conspiracy cost the lives of countless soldiers and citizens of France; and it almost cost the lives of my Musketeers!”_

“I swore earlier that I would get to the bottom of this and, so help me God, I’ll tear this château apart, if necessary, to get the answers I’m looking for. Every drop of blood, every drop of sweat, and every tear shed because of that damned letter warrants the truth—and I won’t rest until I have it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The well-known saying that a cat has nine lives has its origins in witchcraft. A book titled _Beware the Cat,_ was written by English author William Baldwin, in 1561. The book contained the phrase "It is permitted for a witch to take her cat's body nine times."   
>  And so began the superstition that cats have nine lives.


	29. The Truth is Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As Captain of the King’s Musketeers, I ordered two of my best men to carry a letter, and guard it with their _lives,_ if necessary. A letter from the king—the very man that second letter conspired against!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the captain finds out the truth about a certain TWO letters found in the desk of Duke Gaston... he decides to pass that truth on to the boys.

“Aramis.”

“Aramis…” a voice called from somewhere. “Aramis, open your eyes for me, sweetheart.”

The marksman peeled his eyelids slightly open. Aramis stared into the darkness, blinking without focus. He watched with fascination as dark shadows danced in his blurry vision until slowly, almost disappointingly, the figures materialized into Cécile and Doctor Molyneux; the duo was seated beside his bed whispering by the light of a lantern.

“Well, it’s about time you woke up, my medic friend.” Doctor Molyneux patted Aramis’ shoulder gently. “How are you feeling, hmm?”

“Mmm,” the medic coughed to clear his throat before trying again. “I'mmm a li'l sore… my leg hurtsss. What…” he paused, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.

“You don’t remember?” Cécile asked with concern. “What’s the last thing that you remember, Aramis?”

“I ‘member…” he blinked, his brow creased with concentration. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he bolted upright until hands pushed him back down on the bed.

“Don’t try sitting up,” Molyneux scolded. “Just lie still and give your body time to recover.”

“What do you remember?” Cécile asked, repeating her earlier question.

“I remember the soldiers, _ejército de tierra!”_ Aramis hissed in anger and then winced as a sudden wave of pain coursed through his leg. “What happened to my leg?”

“You were shot,” Molyneux replied succinctly.

“But there weren’t any Spaniards…” Aramis stopped short as he remembered what happened in the hallway. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat as the memories flooded back. “A Frenchman shot me,” he spat, balling his hands into angry fists. “Madre de Dios.”

“It was an accident, Aramis,” Cécile said, smoothing loose hair from the medic’s forehead. “I heard Colonel de Créquy is dealing with the soldier personally; I don’t know what will become of him, though.”

“Athos!” Aramis gasped as he tried sitting up again at the thought of his friend. “Athos, his neck was hurt again,” he recalled. “How is he?”

“He is doing fine, Aramis,” the nurse assured softly. “He’s sleeping now.” Cécile motioned toward the sleeping Musketeer lying next to the medic. “Doctor Molyneux stitched up the wound, and your captain assisted him!”

“The captain assisted?” the medic repeated. “Captain Tréville did fine needlework on Athos’ neck the first time he was…” Aramis stopped then let out a long sigh, deciding to change the subject. “Where is the captain?”

“He’s resting also,” Molyneux answered. “He and his group of Musketeers rode hard from Paris, suspecting there was trouble; it is a very good thing they arrived when they did. It’s a miracle Colonel de Créquy and his soldiers showed up when they did as well; I hate to think of what would have happened to us had they not come. In fact, I would prefer to just _not_ think of it," the doctor shuddered.

Aramis turned his head to look at Athos lying beside him, so still and pale. The lantern’s burning fire highlighted the white bandage wrapped around his neck; the cloth seemed to emphasize the paleness of the Musketeer’s skin. The lieutenant's slightly-wheezy breaths appeared to have improved enough to sleep without the steam tent, much to the medic's relief.

“We’re hoping his lungs are beginning to clear sufficiently without having to keep him underneath the tent,” Molyneux eerily chimed, as though reading the medic’s mind. The physician huffed in amusement at Aramis’ startled look. “I saw the question in your eyes, my friend,” he chuckled. “Besides, I’ve been around you long enough to know the kind of questions and concerns you have regarding your brothers.”

“Am I that predictable?” Aramis asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” both the doctor and nurse answered together.

“Yes, I guess I am.” Aramis smiled at their reaction. “Do you think Athos will be alright, or is he right back where he started?”

“Well, he didn’t lose a significant amount of blood this time,” Molyneux assured. “I was able to staunch the bleeding rather quickly—thank God—or we might be having a very different conversation tonight. Athos could not have afforded to lose much more blood without it doing severe, if not permanent, damage. I should be able to better determine his condition in the morning when I examine him then.”

"How are Porthos and d’Artagnan doing?” Aramis inquired of his other two wounded brothers. “I remember that Porthos had the stone pieces in his neck; and d’Artagnan had his head grazed by a ball above his ear.”

“Yes, they are both just fine,” Molyneux replied with a smile. “Porthos got all the shrapnel removed and, as you can see,” the doctor looked over his shoulder at the cots behind him, “he is now sporting a bandage around his neck just like Athos.”

“And d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked as he craned his neck to look at his young friend, now partially hidden by the doctor.

“Ah, Nurse Marta took very good care of his wound; she stitched him up quite nicely,” Cécile complimented the nurse. 

“So he’s going to be alright?” Aramis swallowed hard. “They’re _all_ going to be alright?”

“I don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t all make a full recovery, despite the additional wounds,” Molyneux encouraged. “We had plenty of help from the other nurses, so we were able to take good care of you all at the same time. None of the wounds sustained today were lethal,” the doctor smiled. “I don’t know how that is possible, considering how outnumbered we were, but I’m very grateful.”

“Yes, we were very lucky today.” Aramis blew out a long breath of relief. “It could have been… horrible.”

“Lucky,” Molyneux repeated with a huff of displeasure. “That is a word that keeps coming up in regard to you Musketeers and all your many injuries; I’m beginning to question anyone referring to it as _luck._ I don’t know what else we should call all of this,” he motioned with his hand to Athos and the medic lying on the bed, while tipping his head backward toward Porthos and d’Artagnan. “I don’t know if you are cursed or lucky—maybe a little of both—but I’ve never seen injuries that are just severe enough to teeter a man on the brink of death… but yet death is avoided every time.”

“Is that more of your psychology studies at work?” Aramis asked then yawned, suddenly feeling very tired. The medic snuggled down against the pillow and closed his eyes. He quickly reopened his eyes in search of Athos’ right hand in the dark. The marksman intertwined his fingers with the cold fingers of his brother; he pulled their hands together, resting them on his chest, above his heart. Finally, he closed his eyes and went to sleep with a satisfied smile still gracing his face.

*****

**The Captain’s Fury:**

The next morning, the Musketeers awoke feeling refreshed and more rested than they had in weeks; the physicians had requested that the men be allowed to sleep until they awoke on their own. 

Once the men stirred, Captain Tréville entered the room but stopped short in the doorway, observing his men sitting up and talking. He watched them quietly with a smile on his face until, at last, he stepped into the room with a warm greeting. "Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Good morning, Captain,” they greeted in unison.

“I trust that you had a good night’s sleep and that you are well rested.” The captain stated rather than questioned, though he still waited for a reply.

“Yes, Sir” they answered together.

“Good, because the steward is bringing up breakfast for all of you.” Captain Tréville turned to his lieutenant, specifically. “I want you to eat something, Athos,” he gently ordered. “At least _try_ to get some solid food in your stomach; if you can’t deal with the food just yet, the nurse is also bringing up some beef broth with soft potatoes as an alternative.”

The table was set up for the men with a vast display of food, which the Musketeers dug into with much delight. Cécile brought a tray to Athos as he remained in bed, having decided on the beef broth with potatoes; the lieutenant was not yet trusting in his stomach’s ability to hold down solid food. 

As the men ate, Steward Fontaine stepped inside the doorway. “Captain Tréville, might I have a word with you?”

The men exchanged glances, but shrugged off concern as they returned to eating their meal.

The captain followed after Steward Fontaine into the hall. "What is it, Steward?”

“I…” the steward hesitated, frowning. “I have something important that I need to show you; something you absolutely must see for yourself.”

Alarmed, Captain Tréville warily followed the steward to Duke Gaston’s office. The captain stepped inside the office as Steward Fontaine shut the door behind them and locked it. “No one else can witness this,” the steward warned as he walked to the desk then pulled out two folded letters.

“Is that what I think it is?" The captain raised his eyebrows. "So, there _were_ two letters!”

“I think you should read this one from the king first.” The steward handed Tréville the letter, then waited patiently.

The captain's eyes quickly scanned over the letter; his brow creased with confusion as he reached the end. He reread the letter to confirm the request written by the king’s own hand. The few words written on the paper left Tréville feeling confused and angry.

“Is _this_ the letter that my men risked their lives for?” the captain was incredulous. “This _request_ to Mademoiselle de Hautefort to spy on Queen Anne-- asking who the queen sees and who she talks to?” Tréville’s voice raised an octave in disbelief. “This is the king’s letter?”

“I apologize, Captain, but I thought you should see these for yourself.” Steward Fontaine stepped closer to where the captain sat. “Duke Gaston left the château in such a hurry that he probably threw these letters in his desk drawer without a thought—very careless of my lord.”

“Steward, I would assume that you have read both of these letters?” The captain waited for the steward to nod before he continued. “Where is this other letter, and why do I feel so reluctant to read it?”

Steward Fontaine hesitated as he pulled out the second piece of paper. “This letter is indeed a bombshell and, I do believe, is the cause of the events of late. It is not _my_ place to take any action on this letter,” the steward said, holding the letter in front of Tréville. “Considering the possible consequences, I will leave it to you to decide how it should be handled, if at all.”

The captain took the letter and began to read; his eyes widened with surprise at the words. When finished reading, he dropped the letter then fell into a chair, his face drained of color. He stared ahead, appalled and disgusted.

“Captain. . .?”

The captain pinched the bridge of his nose as he crunched his eyes closed; his face creased into a grimace. “God, I don’t believe this. Are you certain this is _genuinely_ from the queen?”

“Captain Tréville, surely you don’t think. . .”

“I’m sorry, Steward, I didn’t mean anything by that comment,” the captain waved his hand. “I suspected that the queen might be guilty of tampering with the letter but, I never thought she could be capable of _this.”_

“Captain, I have worked with my lord, Duke Gaston, for years,” the steward said to the captain. “I know of his plotting and of his scheming ways; he is quite capable of manipulating people in order to get what he wants. It is possible the queen didn’t know the true extent of the consequences for going along with such a plan,” Fontaine suggested, though he didn’t believe it.

“It’s _possible,_ Steward?” Captain Tréville picked up the letter, then walked to the desk and slammed it down with his hand. “The queen was very well _aware_ of the consequences, yet she was still willing to go forward with this conspiracy—mired as it was with deceit and foolery."

“Duke Gaston could be very persuasive…”

“My men were _tortured_ because of this godforsaken letter!” Captain Tréville yelled, his face red with anger. “Because of the letter the queen wrote, my men were almost _killed,”_ he said, waving the letter in his hand. “I cannot imagine the hell my men went through because of this selfish greed for power!”

“I knew my lord had cravings for power,” Steward Fontaine admitted. “However, I did not know that he would go to such extremes to achieve this power.”

“As Captain of the King’s Musketeers, I ordered two of my best men to carry a letter from the king and guard it with their lives, if necessary. Then I find out that a second letter was smuggled with the first. A second letter set out plans for a conspiracy against the very author of the first letter. This is utter insanity!”

“I understand…”

“If Porthos and d’Artagnan had been caught,” the captain interrupted. "If they had been caught with that letter they would have been executed for treason—no questions asked. Two more of my men endangered themselves-- and very nearly died-- because of that _cursed_ letter! I could have lost four of my best men… and for what?”

“Captain, I know your men experienced torture,” the steward conceded with his head bowed. “Obviously, someone _knew_ the letter from the queen was included with the king’s correspondence –but who? Better yet, how?” 

“The _who_ is Rochefort,” Tréville spat. “I would bet my life on it, Steward. It was Rochefort who gave a letter to His Majesty, after intercepting it from the queen’s courier, Pierre La Porte; that letter could have caused the queen and La Porte to be charged with treason.”

“That answers who; but _how_ did Rochefort know the queen's letter was included with the king’s?”.

“Rochefort must be spying on the queen very intensely,” the captain said, pausing. "Perhaps he has spies watching the queen’s every move; it is the only way he could have known.”

“How are you going to handle this, Captain?” Steward Fontaine asked softly.

“What can I do?” Captain Tréville asked, exasperated. His arms fell loosely by his side, smacking against his thighs in resignation. “I can’t say or _do_ anything; the queen has already been cleared of treason, since La Porte corroborated her story. If I say something now, the queen would be killed for treason _and_ for lying to the king. The queen's death would literally be on _my_ hands!”

“So we keep quiet,” Steward Fontaine surmised.

“We have no choice, Steward,” Captain Tréville replied with resignation. “Unless I want the queen’s death to be on my conscience, this letter can never again see the light of day. We must destroy these now. No… first, I will tell my men the truth of these letters.”

“Are you sure that is wise, Captain?”

“I would prefer to throw these letters in the fire right now, but once the men find out about the conspiracy—and they _will_ find out—they’re going to start asking questions,” the captain shook his head. “They already know Rochefort was involved, and _when_ they find out about the conspiracy, they’re going to put two and two together and figure it out themselves. I cannot keep this secret from them; they deserve to know the truth. They deserve to know about the letter that almost got them killed.”

*****

Captain Tréville stopped outside the door of the bedchamber, with the letters clutched in his hand, and took a deep breath. Inside the room he could hear the men talking; he smiled as he heard the boisterous laugh of Porthos drown the softer giggles of d’Artagnan.

_Am I making the right decision in telling the men about these letters? Do they really need to know the truth just yet? Hell, I asked myself the same questions after Savoy; I thought I was protecting Aramis by hiding the truth, but all I did was hurt him. No, I will not make that same mistake again—the men must know the truth._

The captain took a deep breath and opened the door.

*****

Captain Tréville stepped into the room with his chin tilted upward in a determined manner. However, the dour appearance of the captain was an immediate cause of concern for his men.

“Captain?” Porthos stood from his chair; he took a step toward the captain, but stopped. The large man exchanged anxious glances with his brothers before turning back to his leader. “Captain, what’s wrong?”

“Gentlemen,” the captain said with hesitation. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rested his head against his fingers and took in a deep breath. “I have something I must discuss with you.” He took another deep breath. “What I say here today must _never_ leave this room; you must _never_ speak of it again in your lifetime. I repeat, you must go to your graves with this knowledge and never speak of it to anyone—not your sweethearts, family… _no one.”_

The captain paused to look at each of his four Musketeers to make certain they understood what was said. “Do I make myself clear?” Tréville looked to each man individually for verbal confirmation.

"Yes, sir," the men acknowledged in turn.

Once again, the captain took a deep breath before he reached into his doublet pocket and pulled out two folded letters. 

The Musketeers took in a sharp breath as the captain pulled out the letters. Almost instantaneously, the expressions on the men's faces changed from surprise to anger. “Is ‘at wha’ I think it is?” Porthos asked, finally.

“Yes, it is,” the captain answered with a sigh. “I do not take pleasure in revealing what is in these letters. However, considering everything that you have been through—especially you, Porthos and d’Artagnan—I believe you deserve to know the truth. Some unimaginable events have taken place while you men have been incommunicado and it's time you learned what has happened as a result of these letters.”

“I don’t think I like the sound of this,” Aramis voiced with dread. 

“Nor do I,” d’Artagnan agreed. He swallowed hard; his brown eyes were wide with anticipation and dread. The Gascon was about to find out the reason for his torture.

The captain unfolded both letters and arranged them in the proper order for reading, then he took another deep breath. Captain Tréville read the letter from the king asking Mademoiselle de Hautefort to spy on the queen, while requesting details of every person the queen visited with and corresponded with.

 _That was the easy one._

The captain slid the letter from the king underneath the second letter, then paused to watch his men. The Musketeers were stunned silent. Athos stared down at the bed, shaking his head; d’Artagnan stared out the window, his focus appeared to be a thousand miles away; Porthos leaned forward to rest his head on his hands, covering his face.

Aramis tightly fisted the blanket in both hands, wringing at the fabric as his temper burned inside him. “The king sent Porthos and d’Artagnan on a near-fatal mission to deliver a letter asking the queen’s confidant to _spy_ on her?” he yelled in disbelief.

“Aramis, keep your voice down,” the captain warned. “I do not want anyone else to overhear what is being discussed in here! If you cannot control your temper, there is no point in you hearing anything further.”

Athos turned to Aramis, giving him an almost imperceptible shake of the head as a warning to hold his peace.

“Yes, sir. I will control myself, Captain,” Aramis acquiesced, as he met the eyes of his leader.

“Now, I want each of you to promise to keep your voices down; this next letter and the information I have to tell you will not be easy to hear,” the captain warned.

“We’re ready, Captain,” Athos spoke for the group.

“Dear Gaston,” the captain paused at the sharp intakes of breath. He nodded, then continued to read. “Please forward this letter to my brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, as he has the influence to persuade Ambassador Mirabel to raise sufficient troops for the invasion.”

“Dear God,” Aramis muttered under his breath. The medic knew the Cardinal-Infante was the brother of Queen Anne.

“My dearest Brother…” Captain Tréville read the letter to the men as they sat in stunned silence. Their eyes grew wide, listening as the queen herself had asked her brother to muster and move an army against the King of France. When the captain was finished, he folded the letters then tucked them into his pocket as he watched his men. 

The captain’s heart broke as he watched the reactions of each man deal with such a traitorous revelation-- that their queen had asked for help in attacking the king. The conspiracy was not yet revealed, but he could see the emotions stirring as he watched disappointment, sadness and rage roll across their faces as plainly as if they had voiced them. 

“I don’t. . .” Aramis shook his head. “I don’t believe it, how could she? Why would she. . . why would she _do_ something like this? Why?”

“So 'at is the letter Rochefort wanted so desperately ‘at he was willing to ‘ave me ‘n my li'l brother tortured?” Porthos raised his head up, the rage he felt colored his face a deep shade of red. “We carried a letter askin’ for an attack on the king we serve…” the large Musketeer stood, his fists balled tightly.

Captain Tréville took a step forward. “Porthos, sit back down,” he warned.

“We were whipped to a bloody mess!" Porthos seethed. "We were nearly drowned, and we nearly had our limbs pulled from their sockets. . . just to protect a letter of _treason!”_

“Porthos, I said to sit back down,” the captain ordered. "If you cannot listen, you can leave this room right now.”

“Oh God,” d’Artagnan gasped, choking down a sob. “If we had told the goons where that letter was _we_ could have been executed for treason.” Sudden realization of the severity of keeping that letter hidden hit the Gascon like a fist to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. “That’s why you didn’t tell me,” he said to Porthos. “Even if you didn’t know what the letter said… Oh God… Oh God…”

Aramis couldn't stifle the cry that escaped from his lips; his sorrow was pronounced with tears rolling down his cheeks. Athos reached over to grab the medic’s hand, then squeezed. Without words spoken, the lieutenant conveyed his support and understanding with a simple squeeze of the hand.

“That’s not all,” the captain sighed. Tréville proceeded to fill the Musketeers in on the events resulting from the letter, that they were unaware of. He explained how the conspiracy to remove the king from his throne had unraveled due to troops confronting them in the east and the south. 

The captain outlined the battles that took place, and the embarrassing losses for the rebellion; he informed the men that Duke Gaston had fled France for the Spanish Netherlands and hadn’t been seen since. He spoke of Pierre La Porte corroborating the queen’s explanation of her letter, freeing her from the charge of treason and saving her life. Finally, the captain mentioned Duke Henri II de Montmorency, who was currently awaiting execution with the charge of treason.

“Oh God…” Athos gasped and then coughed at the news. He knew of the duke, as his father had mentioned Duke Henri in conversation; he also knew the highly esteemed man was an excellent officer and soldier of France. "Why… ?" his question was cut off as he was overcome with a coughing fit. He turned to smother his coughs in his pillow until they passed; he kept his face there to hide the tears slipping from his eyes. 

“So that’s why all those Spanish soldiers attacked the château,” d’Artagnan whispered aloud. “They knew Duke Gaston ran away, but they didn’t know we would be here.”

“Bloody hell, I canno’ believe this,” Porthos growled.

The captain stayed with the group for quite some time, talking about what the men had just learned. Questions were asked, with answers truthfully given. Tears were cried, and eventually dried, but the conversation wore on. Despite the lack of detail, the men continued hashing over their concerns until they were drained, both physically and emotionally.

Hours later, the captain stood wearily and sighed. “I’m going to leave you men alone now. Why don’t you get some rest; I’ll come wake you before dinner.” 

Captain Tréville reached for the doorknob but was stopped short with a question.

“Captain, what are you going to do with the letters?” Aramis asked.

“I’m going to burn them,” he deadpanned. “From this moment forward, we will not speak of the letters again. Never again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that I got the emotions of the captain and his men correct at learning the true nature of the letters. Let me know if you liked it. Thank You! Tomorrow, the Epilogue...


	30. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The steward and the nurses watched as the Musketeers mounted their horses and turned to leave Château de Blois, their home for the past several weeks, for the final time. The men waved their hats as they rode through the outer gates and disappeared from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we have reached the end. The boys work through certain issues before they head home. Thank you for taking this journey with me!

**Next Morning:**

Captain Tréville walked into the sickroom and watched his men as they slept. Porthos was lying on his back with d’Artagnan’s head resting on his broad chest; the large man’s arms were wrapped around the Gascon’s shoulders, as though they had fallen asleep comforting each other from a bad dream.

Athos leaned against Aramis with his head nestled in the crook of the marksman’s neck. The medic awoke, groggy and confused; he couldn’t understand why he was so weighed down, unable to move. He sat up straight then turned as he felt the ‘weight’ slide away.

Athos slumped to the bed, unmoving. “Oh God, Athos!” Aramis sprang to life, turning the Musketeer over in a panic. “Athos, wake up!”

Captain Tréville sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Athos into his arms. "Come on, son, wake up,” he tapped the lieutenant's cheek. “Dammit, I shouldn’t have let you all sleep through dinner last night, especially not Athos! I should have known better.”

“Mmm, not hungry,” Athos mumbled, pushing off the captain’s hand.

“The _hell_ you aren’t hungry,” Aramis growled. His heart still pounded in his chest with panic. “You haven’t had anything to eat since lunch yesterday—even then, it was only soup.”

“If you plan on coming back to work for me as a Musketeer, you need to eat and put some weight back on those bones,” the captain directed. “Last time I was at the garrison—and it’s been a while, mind you—I didn’t have any skeletons under my command,” he smiled.

“You need to eat, Athos,” Aramis smiled as he fingered loose hair from his friend’s eyes. “You’re wasting away before our eyes; I’m not going to let you starve yourself to death. You are going to eat a _good_ breakfast, my friend. No more soup for you.”

“Well, I could eat a good breakfast,” Porthos interjected from where he sat on the edge of the cot.

“I am rather hungry too,” d’Artagnan stretched and rubbed his stomach. “How come you didn’t wake us last night, Captain?”

“Ach,” Tréville shook his head and waved a hand lazily around. “You all were sleeping so soundly, I couldn’t wake you; I thought you needed your rest more than dinner. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, at least, not as far as Athos is concerned.”

Just then, the steward and the servants arrived with the food and proceeded to set it in a marvelous display at the table. “Breakfast is served; come and eat, gentlemen,” the steward invited.

“Come on, Athos, let’s go get something to eat,” Captain Tréville said as he helped the Musketeer stand up. Aramis stood on the other side of his friend to steady him as he swayed on his feet. Together, the duo escorted the lieutenant as he took his first real steps in healing, sitting down to eat his first solid meal since arriving at the château.

*****

After breakfast, Aramis walked Athos back to bed. Porthos and d’Artagnan sat on the bed, gathering around their friends. They watched as Aramis tucked the tired and worn Musketeer back under the covers.

“Are we ever going to heal?" d’Artagnan asked. "I mean, are we _really_ ever going to heal?” The Gascon watched Athos lean against the pillows, his face pale and covered with a sheen of sweat.

Athos breathed deeply; he kept his eyes closed while concentrating on keeping his breakfast down. “Dammit, I’m so sick of this, Aramis,” the lieutenant said as the medic swabbed his face with a cool cloth.

“I know you are, but it’s not going to be for much longer, Athos. You are finally beginning to heal,” Aramis encouraged. “At least you don’t have to be under the tent anymore, huh? That’s a good sign in the right direction, my brother.”

“Hmff,” Athos grunted before breaking into a bout of coughing.

“What he really needs is to home and be back in his own bed.” D’Artagnan smoothed the hair from his friend’s forehead with a smile. “Maybe that would help him heal faster.”

“Home…” Porthos stared into the distance dreamily. “I never thought I’d be so anxious to get back to work at the garrison.”

“I want to go home,” d’Artagnan said, his voice laced with sadness. “I miss Constance and her soft voice. I miss her sweet face.”

“You’ll hear her voice again soon enough, my young brother,” Aramis chuckled.

“You don’t get it, do you?” The Gascon snapped. “It was the soft voice of Constance I heard, telling me to fight when I no longer had the strength to live back in that damned dungeon. When I was hanging on the ropes and those goons were whipping me, it was her face that kept me going.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis apologized as he hung his head. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know you didn’t,” d’Artagnan whispered softly. “Keeping my mind occupied with thoughts of, not only Constance, but also of you, and Athos, and Porthos, it's the only thing that kept me alive. I couldn’t have made it through the dungeon without each of you encouraging me. You were all inside here,” the Gascon said, pointing to his head and then to his heart.

“How could Athos and I encourage you when we didn’t even know where you were?” Aramis asked, his eyes darting between d’Artagnan and Porthos.

“I understand what he means,” Porthos added. “When I was hangin' from the ropes and they were whipping me again and again, I thought of each of you. You all helped me to deal wit’ the pain. That pain was worse than bein’ shot; I felt like I was burning all over my body.”

“True,” Aramis agreed. “Being whipped is an intense pain that can be overwhelming.

“The second time they strung me up, they whipped me on my chest, back, stomach, and my neck. I hurt everywhere. It was a hurt you can’t imagine, ‘Mis,” Porthos shook his head. “Every part of my body hurt, but when they splashed ‘at salt water on me… I thought I was set on fire.”

“I know _exactly_ what you mean,” d’Artagnan concurred. “I think I know what it feels like to be burned at the stake after that awful experience,” he muttered in a barely audible whisper. “I have never wished for death more; I wished for a sudden death every time that cell door opened. As the torture continued, thinking of you wasn’t enough anymore—even Constance wasn’t enough. I just wanted to die… I wanted it to be over.”

“I also wanted it over,” Athos chimed in, much to the surprise of the group who thought he had fallen asleep. “The coughing hurt more severely the longer it continued; it was like a dagger had been thrust into my chest and sadistically twisted until I couldn’t breathe. I just wanted to die. I wanted it over; I was tired of suffering.”

“But you stayed with us,” Aramis whispered with a smile. “You’ve always been strong.”

“I’m not as strong as you think I am,” Athos countered. “Quite the contrary, I’m weak…” he paused as his voice broke.

“Weak?” Aramis was astonished. “What are you talking about? Though you didn’t have breath, you still fought to live,” Aramis nodded proudly. “You are here because you are strong.”

“When I saw you and Porthos…” Athos stopped himself short. His face registered the horror at the mistake he just made.

“What do you mean, you _‘saw’_ us, Athos?” Porthos asked, cautiously.

Athos swallowed hard and closed his eyes, saying nothing.

“What did you mean, Athos?” Aramis pressed.

“I… I saw everything,” Athos openly admitted. “I saw Doctor Molyneux had me draped over his lap as he pounded on my back. I saw both of you standing there,” he pointed to the end of the bed. "You were begging me to fight and ordering me not to give up.”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos exchanged shocked glances with Aramis.

“Merde,” Aramis’ face suddenly went pale. He bent over and buried his face in his hands. “Dear God,” he shook his head.

“What are you talking about?” d’Artagnan asked in a near-panic. “What did I miss?”

“After you hit your head, Athos stopped breathin’ again; he almost died. We thought we lost him, dammit!” Porthos growled.

“Well, it sounds like we practically did!” d’Artagnan replied.

“I could have walked away.” Athos’ voice was barely above a whisper as he bared his soul. “I got up to leave and made it to that doorway,” he motioned with his chin to the door. “But then I stopped.”

“What made you stay?” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes welled with tears.

Athos was quiet, his head hung low as he stared at his hands.

“Athos?”

Athos looked up, his eyes brimmed with tears. “What kept me from walking out that door was you three—my brothers. I couldn’t leave you behind knowing how much,” he paused and took a deep breath, “knowing how much my death would hurt you. All of you were my strength and reason for staying.”

Aramis sat with his face still buried; quiet sobs escaped from between the medic's fingers.

Athos sighed heavily then leaned over to rest his head on the marksman’s shoulder. Porthos and d’Artagnan pulled the men into a hug, wrapping their long arms the shoulders of their brothers. 

The four brothers held onto each other as they released all the built-up emotion—fear, worry, horror, despair. For a moment, they allowed the cleansing tears to wash away the _filth_ of this despicable mission. 

Captain Tréville stood at the doorway quietly watching the foursome cling to each other, sobbing and consoling each other--finally allowing themselves to heal. He wiped away the tears from his own eyes and nodded approvingly. The road to recovery would be long and probably tiresome, but the first steps had been taken right here in this room.

The captain smiled at the scene before him. He was proud of these men, and his pride filled his heart to overflowing. He praised his men for facing death squarely in the face with courage; they had fought to survive and, in the end, they had triumphed.

Captain Tréville walked away, proud to be their captain. He commanded many men in his regiment, but these four men would always hold a special place in his heart; it was a place he reserved for very few, but those he especially loved.

**Epilogue:**

**Going Home:**

Captain Tréville, and the six men he had brought with him to the château, made preparations to leave just days after the captain found his four men huddled together in the room. The speed of recovery from that moment forward proved promising, as it gave him the confidence that it would be safe to take the extra men and return home to the garrison.

“You four remain here until you are well enough to ride,” the captain ordered. “Do _not_ return until you are healthy and run no risk of harming yourselves in any way. Steward Fontaine will not release you until he feels you are fit and ready for travel.”

Captain Tréville extended his hand to the steward in gratitude. "Thank you, Steward, for your gracious hospitality and for taking good care of my men. You are the finest of gentlemen; I am honored to have met you. I consider you a friend and, should you ever find yourself in Paris, I extend to you an invitation to visit me at the garrison anytime.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the steward grasped his hand and shook it firmly. “I hope to take you up on that invitation one day. If you ever come back this way, please stop by,” he released the hand. “Château de Blois will always be open to you and your men.”

“Farewell, Steward,” the captain said, giving him a friendly clap on the back before turning to mount his horse. “I will see you men soon.” Tréville nodded to the four remaining Musketeers before he and the six men rode away.

**Later, Château de Blois:**

“The captain’s been gone a few days, how much longer do you think we’ll be here?” d’Artagnan asked. “I’m ready to go home.”

“Yes, I am ready to go home too,” Aramis replied. “The captain wanted us to wait until we’re fully healed before heading home, though.”

“Rubbish, ‘Mis,” Porthos grumbled. “All of us were in worse shape than ‘is when we came ‘ere. I think I can manage ridin’ home.”

“So could I,” d’Artagnan chimed.

“I don’t know that I’d want to chance traveling too soon and risk Athos’ cough coming back,” Aramis shook his head.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Athos growled. “I’m perfectly capable of riding a damn horse. I don’t need a nursemaid anymore…” a sudden coughing fit cut off his words.

 _You don’t need a nursemaid. . . sure you don’t._ Aramis thought sarcastically.

"What were you just saying, my friend?" d'Artagnan stifled a chuckle.

“I think you could use a few more days to rest before you travel anywhere.” Aramis held back a smile.

“If you travel like ‘at and get sick again,” Porthos paused as he raised his eyebrows. “You know, the cap’n will ‘av our hides. No, I’m perfectly willin’ to wait a bit.”

“Good idea,” d’Artagnan agreed as he watched Athos closely. “I know no one wants to think of it, but I may as well ask. How do we go back to doing our jobs as Musketeers with the knowledge we have about the queen and the conspiracy?”

“As Musketeers, we do our jobs as is expected of us,” Athos replied without emotion. “This changes nothing in regard to our duty to the king.”

“Maybe not the king, Athos,” d’Artagnan countered angrily. “As far as I'm concerned, it changes my opinion of the queen. Some kind of queen she’s turned out to be,” he remarked caustically.

Aramis suddenly grabbed d’Artagnan by the shirt collar then slammed him against the wall. “Don’t you talk about the queen like that!” the marksman snarled. 

“You must be daft, Aramis!” D’Artagnan yanked the medic’s hand off of him. “Are you still going to defend her after what she’s done? Even after what we’ve learned about her orchestrating everything?” The Gascon clenched his jaw as he balled his fists at his side.

“I’m sure if she could explain…”

“Explain what?” D’Artagnan exploded angrily. “How does one _explain_ a call for war against the king?”

“Keep your voice down, damn you!” Athos hissed a warning. “We cannot freely talk about what we know,” he said as he pointed his finger at the Gascon. “We have to bury this knowledge; we must behave as though that letter was never revealed. We do our jobs as before.”

“As before?” D’Artagnan’s voice climbed an octave; he raised his hands in the air with disbelief. “Tell me, just _how_ do we do our jobs as before, knowing what we do about the queen? How can you still defend her?” The Gasccon snarled sharply. 

“I am not defending what she did…” Aramis started but was cut short.

“Then what the hell is it?” D’Artagnan was incredulous. “It sure sounds like you’re defending her to me,” he snidely replied.

“She is your queen!” Aramis yelled as he jabbed his finger into the Gascon’s chest.

“She is the _cause_ of all _this!”_ D’Artagnan waved his hands up and down his body. “She is the cause of countless deaths and _our_ suffering… and _still_ you defend her!”

Aramis punched d’Artagnan, sending him slamming against the wall then sliding down to the floor. Porthos grabbed Aramis by the collar and pulled his fist back to throw a punch. Athos grabbed the large man by the shoulders to stop the fight; he shoved the big man aside with strength he didn’t know he had. 

Porthos stumbled, but quickly recovered to shove Aramis against the wall. “I thought we were done hittin’ each other, but I guess you’d rather defend the queen than your brothers.”

“Let me go, damn you.” Aramis struggled against Porthos’ strong hold, but he couldn’t break free.

“Not until you explain why you’re defendin’ the person that caused me and our li'l brother to get tortured,” Porthos growled.

“The hell I will!” Aramis struggled again, only to have Porthos slam him against the wall once more.

“Stop it!” Athos yelled with a thunderous voice. “That is enough! We are _not_ going to act like this…” he stopped as another coughing fit rumbled from deep inside his chest; the cough doubled him over and took his breath away. Unable to catch his breath, Athos fell to his hands and knees.

“Oh God, let me go!” Aramis yanked free from Porthos’ strong grip to slide beside Athos on the floor. “Athos, just breathe slowly… in… and out,” he coached. “Come on, catch your breath… in,” he breathed, “and out… in… and out.” The medic whispered near his friend’s ear, pounding in circles on his back, until he saw the Musketeer gaining control of the cough. 

“Are you alright now?” Aramis asked, holding back the panic he still felt inside.

Athos nodded, unable to speak. His flushed face formed droplets of sweat across his brow, accenting the thin layer of sweat already glistening on his skin.

“Merde,” Aramis crumpled in a heap as he broke down in tears.

Porthos rushed to the medic's side and wrapped his large arms protectively around his shoulders. "It’s alright now, ‘Mis. We’re goin’ to get through ‘is.”

“We can’t keep doing this; we can’t keep fighting with each other,” d’Artagnan said, pulling Aramis and Porthos tightly together. The Gascon rested his head against the medic’s shoulder as he released his own frustrated tears.

Athos reached over and took d’Artagnan’s hand; he hung his head and wept, without having moved from where he sat. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… I can’t… I won’t…” Aramis stumbled over his words.

“ ‘Mis, take a deep breath,” Porthos laughed. “You’re hard to understand when you’re not makin’ no sense.”

D’Artagnan fell over to the floor in laughter, his bitter tears mixed with fresh tears of laughter.

Porthos gave Aramis a friendly slap on the back. "Aw hell, ‘Mis. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing, Porthos, not you.” Aramis wiped away his tears and dried his face. “Not any of you. This was all my fault.”

“No… no need to place… blame,” Athos wheezed.

“Yes there is,” Aramis countered. “This started because…” he shook his head with disgust. “I will… _never_ be able to look at the queen the same way _ever_ again,” the medic said. His face darkened as a storm raged in his brown eyes.

“Aramis, you don’t have to…” d’Artagnan started.

“No,” Aramis interrupted. “You were right—all of you were right. How can I forgive the queen after she almost took two of my dearest friends and brothers away from me? How can I forgive her for all of this?” The medic waved his hands around the room in frustration.

“You don’t have… have to forgive her.” Athos moved next to Aramis and placed his arm around his shoulder. “You just have to do your job as a Musketeer, while burying everything you know about her involvement in this.”

“You mean, _pretend_ we know none of this?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” Athos sighed in resignation. “Remember, we must never reveal what we know.” The lieutenant reiterated the captain's earlier message of warning.

Aramis nodded his understanding.

“So pretend she’s innocent,” d’Artagnan huffed with disgust. "Of course, we know it's quite the opposite.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Athos answered with regret. “We must do our duty as before,” he shook his head. “She is our queen; it is our duty to defend her… but nothing more.”

“I’ll never be able to look at her the same way again,” Aramis’ steely tone resolved. “How do I hide my anger… my _hate?”_

“Let it go, ‘Mis,” Porthos warned. “It’ll eat you up inside and destroy you… and she’s not worth it. ‘Sides, you ‘ave your beautiful Cécile, who loves you.”

“Wait, where’s my friend, Porthos?” Aramis laughed. “Are you giving _me_ advice on love?”

“Whoa, easy now…” Porthos smirked.

Athos smiled as he clapped the shoulders of d’Artagnan and Porthos. He took a deep breath and smiled again as no cough erupted. “When we get back to Paris, we do our jobs as Musketeers.”

“We will defend the king and queen, as our duty requires of us," Athos continued. "We will put aside our emotions and keep them buried, permanently. No one must ever know our _contempt_ for them, though they are our king and queen. No one.”

**Saying Goodbye:**

“I’m afraid that it is our turn to say goodbye, gentlemen, as we are leaving for Orléans today,” Doctor Molyneux reported sadly. “With the other nurses here, we feel you are in good hands. Your recovery has been steadily improving nicely; we see no reason why we cannot take our leave now and return to our patients at home.”

“I’m sorry to see you go,” Aramis replied, forcing a smile.

“We have been away from our patients so long, I would be surprised to find that we have any patients to return home to. They have probably all left us for the competition,” Molyneux laughed.

“If you boys are ever in Orléans, please stop by,” Doctor Berteau said as he shook each of the Musketeer’s hands. 

“Goodbye, boys,” Molyneux shook the hands of the Musketeers. “I will miss each of you. It has been a pleasure taking care of you,; I wish you all godspeed and good health.”

“You take care of those lungs, do you hear me, Athos?” Doctor Molyneux ordered. 

“Yes, Doctor, and thank you.” Athos waved to the physician as he stepped into the carriage.

Aramis and Cécile stepped away for a little privacy as they said their tearful goodbyes. Cécile tried to hold herself together and not cause a scene, but as Aramis touched her face and pulled her chin upward, she fell into his arms and wept.

The marksman pulled her tightly against him; he wrapped his strong arms around her body and held her, rocking her softly while whispering words of comfort in her ear. “You forget that I still have leave due, since I did have to cut my trip short earlier,” he soothed.

Cécile clung onto him tightly and continued to cry.

“I have a promise to keep to a lovely lady,” Aramis reminded. “I promised her that I would return again and pick up where we left off. I never break a promise but, this one especially, I intend to keep.” Aramis kissed Cécile goodbye, tenderly and slowly. It was as though the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving the two of them alone in the universe. 

At last, Aramis planted one final, warm kiss on Cécile’s forehead. “I’ll see you again soon, I promise.”

“You better not break your promise,” Cécile said as she boarded the carriage.

“I promise I won’t,” Aramis whispered. The medic waved as he sadly watched the carriage drive away.

*****

The Musketeers said their tearful goodbyes to Steward Fontaine and the three nurses, Marta, Adele, and Maria. Without intent, the group had grown rather fond of each other while the boys were guests of the château.

“I shall miss all of you,” Steward Fontaine said as he shook the men’s hands. “This large château will be so empty and lonely without you here; I wish that you didn’t have to go. Godspeed and farewell, gentlemen,” he nodded.

The steward and the nurses watched as the Musketeers mounted their horses. The men turned to leave Château de Blois, their second home for the past several weeks, for the final time.

The men waved their hats as they rode through the outer gates and, at last, disappeared from sight.

The four rode back toward home, following the road taking them north to Paris and the garrison. They rode together, side by side, so closely their knees touched; they feared the ride home was nothing more than a dream and was not really happening.

Just a few weeks ago, the Musketeers had never thought they would return home from this mission alive-- at least, not _all_ of them. But today, with their horses side by side, the Musketeers rode home alive and _together_ as brothers… as survivors!

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ALL so very, very much for your support and your encouragement on this story! I thank each and every one of you who read this story, chapter by chapter, commenting along the way. It was indeed a "bumpy ride," full of torture, hurts, conspiracy, tension… but also affection, caring and brotherly love! I truly am sorry to see this story end; I grew very fond of the characters—and their tearful goodbyes are also my own.
> 
> Merci!


End file.
